


A Sadness Runs Through Him

by LynnLarsh



Series: People Are Puppets [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dipper may have escaped but he's still fucked up, Dissociation, Dreams vs. Reality, Existential Angst, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post What You Think You Know, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-06-09 18:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6919021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six years.  For real this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Isn't Six Years Long Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali_asleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali_asleep/gifts).



> I'd never intended to write this, but the combination of Gravity Falls coming to an end, multiple requests for a sequel, and the Hoosier's "Trick to Life" album has made it impossible for me to not. So here it is, the continuation of What You Think You Know that hopefully sheds some light on what I've learned was a rather painful six years for our hero. And hopefully a much less tortured rest of his life. 
> 
> If you haven't read the original fic, this may make very little sense.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dipper wakes up.

His eyes are heavy and he wants to keep sleeping, but he’s been doing a lot of that lately. Too much. So he wrenches himself out of the warm confines of his sheets and forces his legs over the edge of the bed, forces his feet onto the floor, forces his spine to straighten and his body to stretch into a stand. A yawn escapes him, a confession of his own exhaustion, even if no one is around to witness it. He knows it, can feel how bone tired he is no matter how much he sleeps. Part of him wonders if it’ll ever go away.

Surely six years is long enough.

Dipper drags himself out of his room and down the stairs, running a hand along the wall, peeling wallpaper catching beneath his fingertips. The Shack keeps getting older, just like he does, and somehow it keeps staying the same. Just like he does.

The clinking of utensils on dishware echo from the kitchen. It’s probably past noon at this point, Grunkle Stan eating lunch maybe, though it’s strange to see him eating away from the TV. Maybe, in a rare moment, Great Uncle Ford has chosen to spend this afternoon out of his lab. He spends almost every minute down there now, has been obsessed to the point of isolation over defeating Bill ever since-

Dipper shakes his head and grabs the splintered wood of the doorframe to steady himself. He takes a breath, tries not to lapse back into old thoughts, old wounds. Instead, he uses the leverage of the doorframe to pull himself into the kitchen, familiar mask of composure and sanity already in place.

“Hey,” Dipper says before he’s even properly aware of who’s in the kitchen. “What’s for lu-?”

“Look who’s finally awake!” Dr. Cipher grins around a mouthful of food, feet propped up on the kitchen table, a plate with a half eaten sandwich balanced on his knees. 

Dipper’s heart squeezes painfully, his whole chest aching against the heaving breaths he’s suddenly trying desperately to suck down. He’s hyperventilating, he knows that, but he can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop.

“Awwww,” Bill coos, getting to his feet. The plate teeters and falls from its position on his legs, clattering against the floor, pieces of sandwich strewn about like shattered glass. “Is poor little Pine Tree having a panic attack?”

“This isn’t real,” Dipper wheezes, leaning heavily against the doorframe, hands over his ears like a child trying to block out a bad noise. “You’re not real.”

“Of course I’m _real_ ,” Bill shakes his head, taking a step closer. “But this isn’t. It never has been. You should know that by now.”

Dipper clenches his eyes shut. He’s dreaming. He’s just dreaming. 

_It’s just a dream. Just another dream._

His legs buckle beneath him, shirt snagging on chipped wood as he slides down the doorframe to the floor. “Get out of my head.”

“Come on, Pine Tree,” Bill sighs, and he has no right to sound so frustrated. “You’re no fun.”

“Get out of my head!” Dipper shouts a bit louder, clenches his eyes shut tighter, his hands clasped so firmly over his ears that he can feels his nails digging into cartilage. “ _Get out!_ ”

Dipper can feel Bill’s presence immediately, and even though every nerve in his body doesn’t want to, for some reason, he can’t help but look up. He locks eyes with the still-too-familiar face of Dr. Cipher, blond hair distinctly pushed away from his face to highlight his one human and one very much not human eye. Dipper can’t help but stare at the demonic hallow that seems to take up too much of the left side of his face. It feels like it’s drawing him in, drowning him in maple syrup and bad dreams.

“Oh, Dipper,” Bill tsks, reaching forward. “It’s not _my_ fault you can’t tell the difference between dreams and reality.”

Bill’s hand settles like a cold, dead weight on Dipper’s shoulder. 

Dipper wakes up. 

He sits up with a jolt, shirt sticking to his skin with tacky, half dried sweat. He’s shivering. His heart is pounding. He can already feel his eyes prickling, burning, blurring at the edges. Ignoring the dampness of the fabric, Dipper clutches at the collar of his shirt, resting his balled fist over his chest. 

_Breathe. Just breathe. You’re awake now. You know you are._

Dipper sucks in a raw, painful gasp. After a moment, he releases it and wills himself through another and another and another and eventually, he’s mimicking something very nearly close to a normal breathing pattern. He lets go of the collar of his shirt and stretches the stiffness out of his fingers. 

__Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale_ _

Dipper closes his eyes, runs that same stiff and aching hand over his face, pressing a bit too hard at his eyes. He thinks about what his therapist said, takes mental note of the worn softness of his sheets, of the dusty smell of the attic, of the distant, clanking rumble of the air conditioning, of the taste of morning breath on his tongue, of the way his fingers are shaped, curled into a loose fist in his lap. _One for each of your senses,_ she’d said. _To reorient yourself._

Problem is, he can do that in his dreams now too. The feel of the peeling wallpaper beneath his fingertips, the smell of something cooking in the kitchen, the sound of utensils on dishware. Eventually, it feels like, all of his defenses stop working. Slowly but surely, some part of his mind learns to tear them down, make them useless. Make him worse when he should be getting better. 

_Isn’t six years long enough?_

Dipper closes his eyes, thinks about anything but the sound of a plate clattering to the floor or the feel of warm breath on his face spouting truths that he doesn’t want to hear. He raises a hand to his forehead, feels the raised, scarred skin around his birthmark. Three lines meeting and three points, a circle in the middle. 

“Oh! Bro Bro, you’re awake!” Mabel’s voice shakes him out of the last of his nightmare, her presence, as usual, grounding him enough to make him almost believe he’s sane. “You alright?” 

He lets his hand drop quickly to his side and opens his eyes, glancing at her face, already knowing what to expect. She looks nervous, concerned, a bit wary. Dipper attempts to smile in return, trying for comfort and garnering little to no success. 

“I just, um,” he clears his throat, waves a hand in front of his face dismissively. “Couldn’t sleep anymore.” 

Mabel sighs, taking a seat at the edge of his bed. Her bed is all cleared out, her entire side almost completely bare already. He helped her with most of her packing last night. “Another nightmare, huh?” She asks, because she always knows, even when he’s doing his best to make sure she doesn’t. Dipper doesn’t even bother to respond, just nods and sinks in on himself a bit. Mabel places a hand on his knee, not quite looking at him. 

_Six years should be long enough. I should be done with this by now._

“I can stay,” Mabel whispers, and Dipper can’t help but flinch. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he frowns, grabbing her hand. “You’re already going to your second choice school to stay in the state. Don’t make anymore mistakes because of me." 

“It’s not a mistake,” Mabel rolls her eyes at him, a direct contrast to the way she squeezes his hand. “I want to go to the Pacific Northwest College of Art. I mean, it’s got Art in the name and everything! Plus, they have a great curriculum and the professors there seem really passionate. And I got that scholarship, so it’s much more affordable for me to stay in state anyway.” She pauses for a moment, squeezes his hand a bit harder, and he knows what’s coming even before she says it. “You could probably still enroll if you wanted to, you know. Maybe they’d let you start late.” 

Dipper’s throat tightens. “I’m just… I’m just taking a break,” He croaks out, not quite looking at her. Just thinking about it makes his chest ache, his pulse race. “Finishing high school was hard enough.” He tries to laugh, make it sound like a joke, but the truth behind it makes the words fall flat. It’s obvious neither of them think it’s funny. 

“But they have a great photography program,” Mabel tries. At this point it’s almost bordering on pestering, but Dipper can’t bring himself to tell her to stop. Maybe part of him wants her to worry. Just like part of him wants her to stay. “And a media production minor, just like you wanted.” 

“I’ll go next semester,” he says, and even though it’s not exactly a promise, something in Mabel relaxes some. “I’m sure I’ll be… better by then.” The tension returns to her shoulders. 

Mabel smiles. “You’re already doing way better than a few years ago.” 

_No I’m not._

“Yeah, I guess,” Dipper tries to smile back, but it just feels awkward and forced. “Better and better every day.” 

_Or worse and worse and worse..._

“That’s the spirit!” Mabel gets to her feet, picking her backpack up off the floor and slinging it over her shoulder. The rest of her stuff is already downstairs, packed into Grunkle Stan’s car like a game of Tetris: College Edition. “Maybe next semester we can be dorm mates, and sign up for a few classes together. I’m sure our majors will intersect somewhere, right?” She’s already halfway out the door, a bounce in her step, even if it looks a little strained. Dipper shakes his head, smiling to himself as he gets out of bed and follows her downstairs. 

“You two made it just in time!” Grunkle Stan smiles cheerfully the moment Dipper turns the corner into the kitchen. “I made pancakes. Sort of.” Dipper inhales the scent of burnt bisquick and his smile settles into something a bit more genuine. 

_Burnt pancakes. Grunkle Stan’s specialty._

Dipper wills the smile not to twitch. 

“I’m not really hungry, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper clears his throat, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “But thanks anyway.” 

“You should probably eat something anyway, kid,” Grunkle Stan frowns, tapping his spatula over one shoulder. “You barely ate any dinner last night and your parents are expecting me to keep you fed if you’re gonna be stayin’ here through Mabel’s first semester.” 

Something about the mention of Mabel leaving settles a heavy cloud over the room, Grunkle Stan’s awkward half-cough the only thing brave enough to break the lingering tension. 

“Speaking of,” he says, smiling cheerfully again. Dipper can’t help but notice the extra wrinkles around his eyes, the prominent sag of skin beneath them. He’s trying too hard, but sometimes it’s the only thing keeping Dipper from drowning in his own depression, so he doesn’t say anything. Yet. “You almost ready to head out, Pumpkin?” Stan asks Mabel, and she tightens her grip on her backpack, nodding enthusiastically. 

At first. 

Mabel turns to Dipper after a moment, smile faltering, eyes looking a familiar shade of worried. “Unless…” 

_Unless you want me to stay._

But it should really be, _Unless you want me to give up something else for you. Unless you want me to keep letting you ruin my life because you can’t get your shit together._

Dipper shakes his head, partly to get the thoughts to stop swarming each other, and also in part to quell Mabel’s concern. She’s earned this, a chance to get away from all this, a chance to grow a bit even if it means being left behind for a while. She deserves a chance to move on and be her own person, to study art and date boys and hopefully escape from the purgatory he’s dragged her into. 

No. It’ll be fine. He can manage without her for a while. 

“I’ll come visit you on Family Day,” Dipper offers, to seal the deal. Mabel practically beams. 

“Family Day,” she repeats, nodding vigorously. “Maybe by then I’ll have a ton of new friends and a favorite teacher and oh! Maybe even a _boyfriend_ I can introduce you to. But no concerned brother talks, alright?" 

Dipper can’t help but laugh a bit at that. The action feels weak from misuse, but at least it feels sincere. “Promise,” he smirks. 

Mabel’s smile softens, her eyes bright. “I’m gonna go throw this in the car. Save me a pancake, Grunkle Stan!” And then she’s out the door. One step farther away. 

“Your plate’s on the table!” Grunkle Stan calls after her, putting a plate down to Dipper’s left. And then putting one down right in front of Dipper. 

“I said I wasn’t hungry,” Dipper mumbles, chewing at his bottom lip. 

“And I said eat anyway,” Grunkle Stan says, pushing the plate a little closer, face stern. “I’m not letting you starve yourself, kid.” 

Dipper blinks, looking up in Grunkle Stan’s direction. “I wasn’t-” 

“Eat, kid,” Stan points at Dipper’s plate with the blunt end of his spatula. “They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day or something. Gives you energy. And you look like you slept lousy.” 

Dipper tries to think of a response, briefly considers adding his pancakes to Mabel’s and hoping Stan doesn’t notice. But ultimately, Dipper just sighs, picks up his fork, and starts digging in. Each bite is harder than the last, but Dipper manages to eat a good third of it by the time Mabel gets back from the car. 

She plops down next to him and tackles her pancakes with as much enthusiasm as she puts into everything else, devouring disk after fluffy disk until Dipper’s at half of one while she’s eaten a grand total of three. 

It’s not long after that and Dipper finds himself outside the Shack, Grunkle Stan already in the car as Mabel fidgets with the hem of her sweater. It makes him feel a little guilty. She should be all smiles and excitement and boundless energy, and instead she’s hesitating, procrastinating, afraid to leave him behind. 

And she shouldn’t have to. He should be going with her. He’s procrastinating just as much as she is. He’s a coward, afraid to move forward, afraid to move on. It’s the same fear that’s keeping him in Gravity Falls past the summer. The same fear that wrenches him out of nightmares or keeps him from sleep altogether. 

But he won’t let it be a fear that keeps Mabel from getting in that car. 

“Hey,” Dipper smiles, grabbing Mabel’s hand and pulling it away from her sweater. “I’ll be fine.” 

“I’ll call you every day,” Mabel says a little too quickly, and Dipper knows it won’t be true, maybe at first but not forever. It shouldn’t have to be, anyway. 

Still, he says, “I know you will.” 

“And you’ll come see me for Family Day,” she reiterates, squeezing his hand. “That’s only a week away, so…” 

“See you in a week,” Dipper finishes for her with a quiet, amused chuckle. 

Mabel nods, eyes wet and smile shaky. “Awkward sibling hug?” 

Dipper’s throat tightens, his own eyes burning. He can’t even form the words to reciprocate, simply nodding and holding his arms out for his sister to walk into. She hugs him, tighter than she’s ever hugged him, and he does the same, trying not to feel like it’s the last hug he’ll ever have. 

They pat each other on the back once, twice. Then they pull away. 

_I’ll miss you_ , he almost says. _Don’t go_ , he definitely doesn’t say.

Instead, he smiles and clears his throat. “You should probably get going. Don’t want to miss orientation.” 

Mabel nods, wiping at her eyes before getting in the car. She slams the door and rolls the window down. “I’ll send you pictures of my dorm once it’s all set up.” 

“Alright,” Dipper smiles. 

“And I’ll take a selfie in each of my classes so when I talk about them you’ll know what they look like.” 

“Sounds good,” Dipper says, even though that tightness in his throat keeps getting worse. 

“And I’ll-” 

“Mabel,” Dipper laughs. “Go on. Get out of here. Go do… freshman things." 

She nods, hugging her backpack to her chest. Dipper looks over her shoulder at Grunkle Stan. He glances at him in return, offering a nod and a smile of his own. Dipper takes a step away from the car, lets it pull out and change directions, facing the road. 

Mabel leans out of the window and waves. 

Dipper waves back. And keeps waving until he can’t see the car anymore. 

He tries not to have a panic attack. 

The sudden vibration in his pocket is a good distraction, though. Dipper digs out his cell, thumbing past the lock screen to his text messages. 

**I’ll miss u, bro bro.**

Dipper smiles and types back a quick, **I’ll miss you too.**

Almost instantly another text arrives. 

**Promise me u’ll call me if u need me. Anytime. For anything.**

Dipper stares at the screen all the way back to the Shack, no idea how to respond. Not really wanting to respond at all. He’s been leaning on her for so long, she shouldn’t have to keep supporting him now. Sending her away was for the best, letting her enjoy being away will be better. 

Even though he knows that he’ll need her, desperately, when everything eventually shatters and nothing feels real anymore, it’ll be better. 

So, even though he doesn’t mean it, even though it’s a bold faced lie, he still texts back, **Promise.**

.x.x.x. 

Dipper knows the code to the vending machine by heart now, the whir and hiss of the pressurized door swinging open as familiar as the creak and groan of his bedroom door upstairs. The stairs protest beneath his feet, making noises that should probably be accompanying a total collapse, but Dipper continues downward without hesitation. 

The stairs crumbling beneath his feet, swallowing him whole in the rubble of the Shack and Ford’s lab, would almost be a sort of poetic comfort at this point. 

Dipper shakes off the macabre as best he can before making his way into Ford’s main laboratory. 

As usual, Ford is bustling about, mumbling scientific jargon Dipper only understands half of. Dipper pauses to watch, trying to see if now would be one of those “bad times” to pop in. Every now and then, Ford walks with purpose over to his journal, jotting something down, flipping through page after page. Dipper stopped wondering what he was doing a long time ago. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to be helping. 

After long enough that it appears safe to interrupt, Dipper clears his throat. Ford tenses, whirling on Dipper with something that could probably be classified as violent intent. The moment he recognizes Dipper’s presence, however, he relaxes, clearing his throat and scratching a bit awkwardly at the back of his neck. 

“Oh, um… Hello, Dipper.” He says, not quite looking him in the eye. “Everything alright?” 

Dipper leans against one of Ford’s workstations, pretending to focus on anything other than the distinct feeling that Ford really wants him to leave. “Hey, Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper says, fiddling with a dial on the display above the station. It says something that Ford doesn’t tell him to stop, doesn’t even tell him not to touch. “I had another nightmare last night.” 

Ford sighs. “Damn. Still not sleeping well, huh? I thought I’d worked out a good balance this time.” He rushes into the secondary lab, instantly fiddling with the chemicals. “Give me a second and I’ll whip up another few pills you can try. Surely one of them will-” 

“Thanks, Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper cuts him off, sitting down in one of Ford’s chairs and pulling one of his knees up to his chest. “But I don’t know if another sleep aid is gonna help.” 

“It’s all about keeping Bill out of your mind, boy,” Ford continues throwing this chemical into that, moving beakers, picking up test tubes and putting them back down. “You know, if you’d just let me install that metal plate, I’m sure you-" 

“I don’t think it’s Bill anymore, though,” Dipper sighs. He’s had this conversation with Ford before, but it’s always just that little bit harder every time. “At this point, I’m pretty sure I’m in my own head." 

“Don’t be silly, Dipper,” Ford waves a hand in his direction dismissively, still fully focused on the chemicals. “Bill’s still got some sort of hold on you, that’s all. And if you just give me a little more time…” Ford stops, placing both hands on his work table with a sigh. For a moment, the only sounds are the soft beeps and whirs of the machine in the lab. But then Ford finally looks up, catching Dipper’s eye. He looks tired, but still, he tries to smile. It makes something painful latch onto Dipper’s chest. “I’ll figure out how to make it better, Dipper. I will. I’m so close. I can feel it.” 

Part of Dipper wants to grab the nearest piece of breakable equipment and hurl it against the wall, scream at him that, _No. You’re not close. Because there’s nothing you can do. It’s all in my head now. Bill fucked me up beyond repair and all that’s left are my own delusions and some post-traumatic stress. Bill’s not keeping me up at night, I am. No metal plate or chemical sleep aid can combat that._

But another part of him wants to believe that it’s still Bill, and that if anyone can defeat Bill, it’s his Great Uncle Ford. It seems childish and naïve, but he wants it to be true so badly. If Bill still has his clutches on Dipper’s mindscape, then that means the last six years haven’t been his fault. It means he hasn’t been drowning this whole time, he hasn’t been too weak to get better. 

If Bill is still in his head somehow, it means that Dipper can still fight him, can still escape from this. 

But outside of the occasional nightmare, Dipper hasn’t heard even a passing whisper of Bill since he disappeared into the forest six years ago. He said he’d return, but Dipper’s been waiting and dreading and looking over his shoulder every day with nothing to show for it. 

It’s that part of him, the part that’s still waiting for the fallout, for Bill’s eventual return, that knows he can’t believe in Ford, not the way he really wants to. It’s not sensible, it’s not attainable. All of Dipper’s issues and all of his suffering, at this point, can’t be anything other than self-inflicted. 

Yet still, Dipper nods, offers Ford a sad smile. “I know you will,” he says, and Ford nods back, looking a bit more relieved, especially when Dipper gets to his feet and starts heading back towards the lab exit. 

“Here, Dipper,” Ford says before Dipper gets too far. He holds out a hand, a couple of pills resting in his palm. “Try these. They should help.” 

He knows they won’t, but Dipper takes them anyway. “Thanks, Great Uncle Ford.” 

Ford places a hand on Dipper’s shoulder, an awkward attempt at comfort, but even so, Dipper can’t help but lean into it. “It’s going to be alright, Dipper. I’ll find a way to make it alright.” 

Dipper wants to believe in Ford, wants it more than anything, but all he can manage is an equally as awkward nod before pulling away. If Ford notices his hesitance, he doesn’t comment. 

“Grunkle Stan and Mabel just left,” Dipper says, shuffling his feet. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans to keep from fidgeting. “Want me to order pizza for dinner or something?” 

“Sure,” Ford clears his throat. “Go ahead. I’ll… I’ll come up and join you when it gets here." 

Dipper nods, even though he knows it’s not true. He can barely remember the last time Ford ate, let alone actually joined them for dinner. 

Ford’s already buried in his work again before Dipper even properly turns to leave. 

.x.x.x. 

Tonight is one of those nights where Dipper doesn’t sleep at all. 

It’s not as though he doesn’t try. He tosses and turns, thinks about his favorite movie from beginning to end, even counts sheep, but sometimes sleep just refuses to come. Those nights, on many levels, are some of the hardest. 

Eventually Dipper gives up trying, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. Everything is quiet. Even the regular sounds of the Shack seem muted and distant. It might be because Mabel isn’t here. He’s gotten so used to the sound of her presence over the years that he never realized just how quiet it would be once she went away. It’s almost suffocating. 

Dipper gets to his feet and walks over to the window, opening it wide. The breeze is tinged with the beginning of an autumn chill, raising goosebumps along Dipper’s arms. It blows the weariness from his eyes, makes him feel awake and present. It’s that more than anything that convinces Dipper to head to the roof. 

Well. That and the sudden need to be away from the bare and empty remnants of Mabel’s side of the bedroom. 

Dipper doesn’t even bother to change clothes, climbing up onto his favorite spot on the roof in nothing but his thin pajamas and bare feet. He settles himself down, legs dangling over the edge, and waits. 

He’s not really even sure what he’s waiting for, or if he’s even waiting for anything tangible. He just knows he’s exactly where he should be. He just knows being out here, nearly freezing, listening to the sounds of nature’s nocturnal other life… it just _feels right_ right now. 

Dipper leans back on his arms, lets his head sag into the crooks of his shoulders, and closes his eyes. The wind plays with his hair, the brightness of the night sky almost warming his face. It’s nice up here. Peaceful. Dipper opens his eyes to look at the moon. 

And a giant eye with a slitted pupil looks down at him in its place. 

Dipper nearly falls off the roof, a sight that sends the moon-eye shaking in the sky with an audible laughter. A painfully, unbearably familiar laughter. 

“What’s the matter, Pine Tree?” Bill’s voice echoes from every corner of the sky, the moon-eye shrinking and falling, settling in front of Dipper’s face before the rest of Bill materializes around it. “Did I scare you?" 

Dipper doesn’t really know how to respond. It’s been so long, he’s been waiting for and agonizing over this moment for years, and then the moment he lets his guard down… Dipper can’t breathe, his heart pounding against his rib cage like it’s trying to escape. He’s not even sure this is real. 

“Don’t worry, kid. You’re not dreaming.” Bill reaches his hand out in Dipper’s direction, and Dipper tries to flinch away but Bill’s arm stretches, stretches, and pinches him just above the elbow regardless. Dipper hisses against the sharp stab of pain. “See? Wide awake. Not that pain is that good of an indicator, but at least it’s something.” 

“What are you doing here?” Dipper finally hears himself choke out, words coming on a half second delay from brain to mouth. 

“I’m here to pick up my suit!” Bill says cheerfully, and those words wrack Dipper to his core, memories of six years ago flashing behind his eyes fresh and vivid and excruciating to behold. 

“I didn’t say yes to you then, Bill.” Dipper gets to his feet, slowly, carefully, and stands Bill down. “What makes you think I’m going to say it now?” 

Bill shrugs, floats up to the roof so that Dipper and he are what would be face to face. And then, suddenly, they are face to face, Bill’s metaphysical body morphing, melting, twisting back into the image of Dr. Cipher, all tan skin and blond hair and looking very, very human. His lab coat is gone this time, replaced with what appears to be an expensive looking, tailored suit, and it should make him seem demonic, ethereal, but all it does is making him appear more attractive. Like an Egyptian model. It’s disconcerting, throws Dipper off his axis, nearly has him toppling over the edge of the roof again. And he probably would have if not for the way Bill reaches out with a very tangible, very skin and bone and human hand, to grab his upper arm, supporting him. 

“Whoa there! You look tired, Pine Tree,” Bill says, loosening his grip on Dipper’s arm but not removing it completely, instead rubbing his thumb almost tenderly along the crook of Dipper’s elbow. Dipper glances at it, swallowing thickly. 

“Is that why you think I’ll say yes?” Dipper frowns, though he has yet to pull his arm away from Bill’s touch. On many levels, it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “Because I’m tired?" 

“That might be part of it,” Bill smiles, teeth shining white like moonlight. It makes the rest of his face seem to grow darker. “But mostly I just think it’s because you’re older now. Wiser.” Bill leans in, lips at the shell of his ear, and Dipper’s whole body goes tense. “You’ve been waiting for me too, haven’t you, Dipper? Aren’t you relieved?” 

What’s really twisted, is that he is. He’s been in purgatory for so long, he was starting to think he might never figure out how to take that first step back into the world of the living. But having Bill here, right now, finally, after so long, it’s like being ripped from stagnation and thrown into constant motion. It’s like the whole world was on pause until this moment. 

It’s like being awake. 

“It won’t get easier, you know,” Bill practically purrs, walking behind Dipper and snaking an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. The heat of his body is impossible for Dipper to ignore, a hard line pressed against his back. “You should say yes. You know you want to. After all this time, you can finally sleep. Doesn’t that sound nice, Dipper? Sleep?” 

Dipper doesn’t think, doesn’t even really process what he’s doing. He just reacts. Those words, that voice, the warm breath against his ear and neck almost burning in contrast to the cold air. Dipper wrenches himself from Bill’s grasp, spins on him, and attempts to push him off the roof. 

The look of surprise on Bill’s face would have been its own victory if not for how quickly it splits into amusement. Bill’s tumble from the roof comes to a halt at mid fall, his body dangling at a perilous angle to the forest floor ten feet below. 

“I take it that’s still a no then?” Bill chuckles, stepping the rest of the way off the roof and floating cross legged a good foot away from Dipper’s face. 

“No,” Dipper spits out for good measure. Bill just shrugs, leaning back on nothing but air and stretching out like a cat, all cool composure and casual indifference. 

“Suit yourself,” he says. “I don’t mind waiting. As long as you don’t mind those inner demons of yours keeping you up a bit longer.” 

The thought of another sleepless night after so many makes Dipper’s stomach twist, but he’ll manage. He has to. 

“Get out of here, Bill,” Dipper says, attempting to be stern, matter-of-fact. “We’ve set up wards. You can’t get to any of us when we’re in the Shack.” 

Bill blinks out of existence for a moment and Dipper’s heart stutters. Then, from right behind him, come the words, “But you’re not _in_ the Shack right now. Are you?" 

A single hand presses firmly into the center of his back and shoves. 


	2. Everyone Has Their Own Methods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper isn't alone in this. Even if it feels that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so so much for the kudos and comments! I still haven't responded to some of the comments from What You Think You Know, so I feel guilty responding to these before I do... But just know that every comment is read and fawned over and appreciated immensely! 
> 
> This chapter was longer (and much more painful) than I expected, but at the end of the day, this sequel is meant to be a conclusion, both for Dipper and for me. So hopefully it doesn't stay painful forever. We'll see.
> 
> Next update may be a little late due to traveling, but I'll try to get it up as close to friday as possible. Happy reading!

“Dipper? Dipper!”

A hand shaking his arm pulls Dipper sluggishly back into consciousness. He blinks, eyes heavy and blurred, and tries to raise his head. Except, that motion alone sends off warning signals, his brain slowly becoming aware of how Not Right everything is.

Leaves crunch beneath him as he shifts. The frigid air lingers over his skin, fingers and toes practically numb. The smell of nature is overwhelming. Everything is overwhelming.

The last of Dipper’s drowsiness vanishes in a frantic jolt of realization. He wrenches himself into a seated position, arms flailing out in panic and colliding with something to his left. Dipper whirls on it, eyes wide and heart pounding.

“Dipper, it’s me!” Ford holds up his hands, kneeling on the cold dirt at his side. “It’s me.”

It takes a moment for that to process. Dipper hugs his arms to his chest and rubs at the goosebumped flesh, forcing his panting breaths to slow, his freezing body to warm. Neither seem to work very well.

“Dipper,” Ford tries again when it’s obvious Dipper isn’t going anywhere for a moment. “Are you alright? What are you doing outside?”

Dipper closes his eyes, shakes his head.

_A conversation on the roof, the line of Bill’s body against his, Bill’s voice in his ear. A hand against his back, a hard shove, and then falling. Followed by nothing at all._

“Bill,” Dipper chokes against the aftertaste of that word on his tongue. “Bill was-”

He stops. Thinks for a second. Because as real as it felt, there’s no way for him to know if Bill is really, truly back. Had Dipper fallen asleep on the roof without realizing? Was all of that just another vivid dream slowly driving him mad? Have his delusions started causing him to sleepwalk?

Or was it all real? Was Bill waiting for Dipper to let his guard down, waiting for him to be tired and alone and vulnerable?

It’s too much to think about, and Ford is staring at him with his own exhausted concern, a fear in his eyes at Bill’s name that has Dipper clearing his throat, trying again.

“I must have… had another nightmare,” Dipper decides to say. Ford frowns, almost as if he doesn’t believe him, but then eventually he just sighs, running a hand over his face.

“One of the pills must have reacted with your body chemistry,” He says, rubbing at his eyes beneath his glasses. “Sleepwalking might be a symptom of it. I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks, Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper mumbles, feeling oddly guilty.

“Come on,” Ford gets to his feet, holding out a hand. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death.”

For a brief moment, Dipper considers telling Ford exactly what happened. That, even if he’s not completely certain, some part of him believes Bill had pushed him off the roof. But with as insistent as Ford is that Bill be the one to blame, if it really _was_ only in Dipper’s head after all… Dipper doesn’t want Ford to be disappointed.

So he simply grabs Ford’s hand and silently follows him back into the Shack instead.

.x.x.x.

The clock above the stove says two thirty in the morning. Dipper lets himself sink heavily into a chair, lets his head fall to rest against the kitchen table. He’s still shivering, but he can’t seem to muster up the desire to move now that he’s inside and sitting and awake. He’s awake.

_I’m awake… Right?_

He closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths. The aging kitchen table is scratchy against his cheek. The aroma of charred pancakes has faded, mixing with the smell of the kitchen’s natural state, part Grunkle Stan’s morning coffee, part old wood and grease and the perpetual smell of burning. His mouth tastes stale, a cold and slightly gritty bitterness on the back of his tongue. In the distance, he can hear Great Uncle Ford moving about, probably heading back to his lab. Dipper takes another deep breath and opens his eyes, cataloguing everything he can see in the dimly lit kitchen without lifting his head.

Stove. Sink. Picture window. 

“Here.”

Dipper can’t help but startle, picking up his head just enough to watch Ford creep back into his line of sight. In his outstretched hand is a blanket. At the sight of it, a fresh wave of shivers crawl up Dipper’s spine, settling beneath his skin.

“Thanks,” Dipper mumbles, grabbing the blanket and throwing it around his shoulders, settling into the warmth.

Dipper expects Ford to leave then, but he doesn’t, the two of them sharing the cramped space of the kitchen in awkward silence for minute upon minute. Dipper knows he should probably say something, should definitely tell Ford what happened on the roof, but he’s too tired, too cold. So he keeps staring at a spot in the middle of the table instead, counting the amount of swirls in the wood.

Eventually, to Dipper’s surprise, Ford takes a seat across from him, resting an elbow on the table and his chin on one six-fingered hand.

“I won’t pretend to know what you went through, Dipper,” Ford finally says after another tense, silent moment. “I can’t even begin to imagine what Bill put you through.” Dipper flinches at the name, at the memories that come along with it. “But I know what Bill is capable of, and I know what it’s like to be… the focus of his demented attention.”

Dipper knows what’s coming, and wishes it wasn’t so hard to hear.

“So, if you ever want to talk,” Ford says, even tries to offer Dipper what should be a comforting smile. It just makes Dipper feel sick.

“Thanks, Great Uncle Ford,” Dipper swallows back the sudden desire to get as far away from Ford as possible. It isn’t even a logical reaction. If anyone might be able to understand, to _help_ , it would be Ford. But for some reason, that thought alone makes him want to panic. “But I don’t…”

“I get it, Dipper,” Ford sighs. “It’s alright. Just…” He takes off his glasses, running a hand over his face. “I just wanted you to know that.”

Dipper nods, even though he knows Ford isn’t looking. He just doesn’t know what else to say.

That silence lingers again, thick and oppressive. It makes Dipper’s skin crawl. “I’m gonna… Try and go back to sleep,” Dipper says after a while. Ford offers him a tight nod, watching him get to his feet. Before he can turn to leave, however, Ford clears his throat, the desire to escape the kitchen growing even more adamant at the sound.

“Do you think,” Ford starts, and something prickles at the back of Dipper’s neck, his heart skipping a beat. Dipper tightens the blanket around him a bit further, willing his face to stay blank despite the irrationally rising panic. Ford captures his gaze, eyes sad. “Do you think it would have been better if you’d gone with your sister to college?”

_No. No, I had to stay here. I need to stay here. This was Mabel’s chance to get away. This was Mabel’s chance to escape. I can’t leave. I shouldn’t leave. Not till I’m better. I’m not getting better. Mabel had to go alone. Mabel has to be away from me. Away from here. I have to stay here. I can’t leave._

“Probably not,” Dipper says, turning on his heel and forcing himself not to hurry back up to his room despite the sudden urge to run.

He stayed behind for Mabel. That’s what he tells himself anyway. But that doesn’t mean he can just ignore the way the thoughts race about inside his head, latching on and dragging him down, down, down.

_I’m not getting better. I have to stay here._

Dipper climbs up the stairs two at a time, walks over to his bed and collapses into it, curling in on himself. His heart won’t stop pounding, his whole body shaking, shivering despite how warm it is beneath the blanket.

_Mabel had to go alone. Mabel had to leave me alone._

He closes his eyes tight, counts his breaths against his heartbeats, inhale for four, exhale for seven. Eventually he drifts into a tense and restless sleep, all of his thoughts playing soundtrack to his abstract and meaningless dreams, a nonsensical lullaby of fears and concerns all pointing to one painfully important, unavoidable truth.

_I can’t leave Gravity Falls._

.x.x.x.

Dipper rouses sluggishly, his whole body aching and his brain refusing to accept consciousness. He’s not sure what time it is, but it feels late. Like three o’clock in the afternoon late. Dipper forces himself to sit up, rubs starbursts into his eyes in attempt to force some focus out of them.

He doesn’t remember his dreams for once, but that doesn’t exactly feel like a triumph considering.

The blanket that Ford gave him last night is pooled on the floor next to his bed, his sheets kicked into unmanageable disarray. He was probably thrashing about in his sleep, though he can’t quite remember what prompted it. Even his nights of deep and uneventful sleep seem unwilling to give him to sort of rest he knows he needs.

Dipper inches his legs over the edge of the bed and grabs the blanket, returning it to his shoulders, bundling himself in. He gets to his feet, drags himself over to Mabel’s empty side of the room, and stands himself in front of the floor length mirror she left behind.

It’s weird… looking at himself sometimes. Especially recently. 

Mabel and his eighteenth birthdays came and went a little under two weeks ago. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, Dipper has found himself in the exact same body he was in six years ago, the same hair, the same angular face, the same lanky arms and legs. It’s frightening to think about, that somehow Bill had known, all those years ago, exactly what Dipper was going to look like.

Well, almost exactly.

With a slight tremble to his fingers, Dipper raises a hand to his face, brushing the hair away from his forehead. The scar has faded over the years, once a dark, puckered red, now a raised and shimmery light pink. Three lines and a circle, too clean, too precise to have been inflicted by anything human, even if it scarred in a very human way. The triangle perfectly surrounds his own birthmark, almost intentionally making it appear as part of the overall image. The handle of the little Dipper consumed by Bill’s visage. Making it impossible to escape his presence.

Dipper drops his hand, letting his hair fall back into place, shielding the scar from view. Not that it matters. He always knows it’s there, can practically feel it throbbing beneath his skin.

Downstairs, the sound of the front door opening grabs Dipper’s attention.

“Hey, Dipper!” Grunkle Stan calls up the stairs. “You up?”

“Um, yeah,” Dipper calls back down, voice still rough from sleep. “Be down in a sec.”

Some noise of agreement travels up the stairs in response and Dipper steels himself, taking one more deep breath for good measure before turning away from the mirror.

Grunkle Stan is already seated in front of the TV by the time he gets downstairs. He sits up a bit straighter as Dipper walks in, plastering a smile on his face that does nothing to deter attention from the exhaustion in his eyes.

“Sleep alright last night, kiddo?” Stan asks as soon as he’s muted the TV. 

Dipper thinks of waking up on the cold, forest floor in front of the Shack, thinks of rooftop threats and kitchen conversation. He thinks of falling and dreamless, restless unconsciousness, and still says, “Yeah.”

“Good,” Stan nods. “That’s good.”

Dipper nods again, feeling something like guilt bubbling in the pit of his stomach. But it’s better for Stan if he thinks things are getting better. It’s better for everyone, especially after this long. Dipper’s just really bad at pretending.

“So, how’s Mabel?” Dipper asks after a moment, fidgeting a bit with the hem of his shirt. Stan smiles, and this time it look a bit less forced. 

“All settled in,” he says. “We got her dorm mostly fixed up, met her roommate. Poor girl didn’t know what hit her, but I’m sure she’ll get used to Mabel eventually. No one’s immune to that girl’s charm. Not even me.”

A chuckle tickles at the back of Dipper’s throat. “I’m glad,” Dipper smiles, shoving his hands in his pockets once he realizes he’s still fidgeting. He feels around the edges of his cell phone and clears his throat. “Did she seem busy? I mean, like,” Dipper contemplates taking his phone out of his pocket, but he doesn’t want to know if she’s texted or not. If she has, he has no clue what he’ll say. And if she hasn’t… “She probably has a lot going on with orientation and stuff, right?”

If Stan notices the awkward half-avoidances between his words, he doesn’t say. Instead, he just chuckles, deep and rough, the sound as time worn as he’s become. “She’s got herself signed up for too many classes, in my opinion. But what do I know? I didn’t even graduate high school.”

“She can handle it,” Dipper nods, taking solace in the fact that Mabel’s not holding back. Especially not because of him. Not that he expected her to. Or hoped, on some selfish level that she would.

“I’m sure she can, kiddo,” Grunkle Stan hums, leaning back into the chair. “Wanna watch some TV?”

An agreement is on the tip of his tongue, but Dipper finds himself hesitating, suddenly craving solitude. Which won’t be helpful. He knows it won’t be. But it’s a temptation he’s a bit too tired to refuse.

“Thanks, Grunkle Stan, but I think I’ll just go for a walk.”

Stan doesn’t quite manage to hide the flicker of disappointment on his face, the smile he uses to cover it up coming across as more of a sad grimace than anything. “Alright, kid. Just make sure you throw on something a bit warmer than your PJs, yeah? And be back in time for dinner. I’m ordering chinese.”

Dipper nods and, without another word, heads back up to his room to change. He avoids the mirror the entire time.

On his way through the gift shop, he notices a light flickering from underneath the vending machine. For a brief, conflicted moment, he considers going back down to Ford’s lab, but he can’t imagine what good it would do. Last night felt like the most Ford had talked to him in months, maybe years, and all Dipper could do was try not to panic and escape to the sanctity of his bedroom as soon as possible. He wants to talk to Ford, he wants to come up with a plan, but he can’t.

For some god awful reason, he can’t.

So instead of swallowing back the rising anxiety and plugging in the code to the vending machine, instead of traveling down to Ford’s lab and begging for help, Dipper walks out of the Shack and tries not to feel like a failure.

.x.x.x.

He doesn’t even really know where he’s going. He just lets his legs carry him one step at a time further and further into the forest. After a while, he’s not even really sure where he is anymore; all the trees have begun to look the same, all the usual signs of his normal route through the brush replaced by unfamiliar foliage and unmarked paths.

The forest even _sounds_ different, Dipper realizes with a steadily sinking dread. Like a slightly distorted, atmospheric white noise traveling through the trees on the soft, autumn-chilled wind. Or like whispers blowing past, weaving in and out and around him on the breeze, tickling at the inside of his ears.

Dipper freezes at the thought, forces himself to listen more closely. And just as he feared, it’s not like whispers at all. A voice hisses through the leaves, floating around him in a barely noticeable sigh, a layered, dissonant sound that he could probably convince himself doesn’t exist, _should_ probably convince himself to ignore, _don’t do this, you’re awake, this isn’t real._ But he can’t. Not once he hears it.

Not once the words, _Tick tock, Pine Tree_ , solidify into audible meaning.

Dipper picks up speed, hardly aware of his pace until his legs are pumping and his feet are pounding against the dirt floor, pushing him along, urging him through the forest to somewhere, anywhere, away, away, away.

 _Where are you going, Pine Tree?_ The forest chuckles, cold and crystalline, like falling rain in the distance.

 _You can’t escape me, Pine Tree._ A passing tree sighs, its leaves shivering against the exhale like flames on a pair of birthday candles, a wax number one and a wax number three melting into too sweet, store bought frosting.

 _This is getting you nowhere, Pine Tree._ An overgrown bush yawns, stretching out its branches in boredom, thorns creeping into Dipper’s path and snagging against his shirt sleeves, his bare arms. He stumbles, heart lodged in his throat, and looks around, partially hoping that Bill will be behind him.

Then maybe he can pretend he’s not going crazy.

But he’s alone. Alone and irrationally terrified and hearing voices in the trees like a certifiable nut job and all he can bring himself to do is lean heavily against one and cover his ears, close his eyes, breathe in, breathe out.

_It’s not real. Calm down. It’s not real. You’re okay. It’s not real. Just stop it. It’s not real. It’s not real!_

The feeling of a hand on his shoulder has him nearly jumping out of his skin, startling him badly enough to stumble away from the tree, lose his balance, and tumble to the floor in an undignified heap.

He looks up at the source of the surprise and feels his heart stop.

Pacifica looks down at him, eyes wide and frozen in her own shock, arm still outstretched in his direction.

All at once, Dipper’s back in the mental hospital, back under Bill’s control, an eighteen year old Pacifica Northwest materializing for him in his time of need, no more than a pathetic creation of his tortured mindscape.

But no. No, no, no, he escaped. He’s in Gravity Falls. This is real. Even with her face looking so familiar, so painfully familiar. Even when she showed up right when he-

Stop. No. He may not have seen Pacifica in five years, and she may look frighteningly identical to Bill’s twisted interpretation of her, but she’s different. She’s real and she’s here and-

“Dipper?” Pacifica is speaking, and it sounds like she might have said his name more than once already. Dipper shakes his head, trying to look at her a little less closely and with a lot less panic. “You’re really starting to freaking me out, Pines.”

Dipper takes a breath and focuses his eyes to the side of her face. Her hair. No ponytail like the Pacifica from the mental institute. This Pacifica has hers cut in an angular bob, shorter in the back and longer in the front, stick straight and framing her face. She has piercings now that weren’t there before, the edge of a tattoo behind her ear.

_She’s different. She’s real._

But then why is she here?

It doesn’t make sense. It _shouldn’t_ make sense. 

Not unless he called her here. Not unless he’s still in the mindscape and this has all been a lie and Bill’s still controlling his every moment, every thought, every-

A sharp pain radiates across his cheek and jaw and ear, Dipper’s thoughts whiting out for a moment, short-circuiting. He blinks once, twice, and looks up.

Pacifica is still staring at him, frazzled but concerned. She’s cradling her hand against her chest.

She slapped him. He’d been completely consumed with panic, no way of rationing out control. And she still slapped him. No prompting. Completely of her own free will. 

And not only that, but-

“That… That hurt,” Dipper says, raising a hand to his face. It stings a bit when he touches at his cheek. It feels like waking up.

“Yeah,” Pacifica frowns, putting her hands on her hips, staring him down. “It was supposed to. You were freaking the fuck out.”

“S-Sorry,” Dipper clears his throat, getting shakily to his feet. “You um… You scared me.”

Pacifica blinks at him for a moment, stunned, but then rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “ _I’ll_ say.”

“What, um… What are you doing here?” He asks next, because that’s the most important question, the one that doesn’t make any sense at all. After five summers with no sign of the Northwest heiress, it seems terrifyingly coincidental that he run into her here, alone, not long after their eighteenth birthday. A year far too similar to one he’d much rather forget.

“I live here?” Pacifica raises an eyebrow at him, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. And somehow Dipper had missed it, running blindly through the woods. Somehow he’d managed to make a panicked flee straight to the outskirts of Northwest property.

Even when he’s not calling out to her, subconsciously, he’s still relying on her. Even now.

“Right,” Dipper clears his throat, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. “I just mean… Aren’t you going to college or something?”

“My parents are having me take a year off,” Pacifica shrugs, nonchalant. “Traveling abroad, learning the language, adapting to the culture. Basically it’s their opportunity to make connections overseas without leaving the sanctity of the Manor.”

“Sounds… fun?” Dipper tries, and Pacifica actually chuckles at that, even if it sounds a little sardonic.

“If they want to pay for me to stay in fancy hotels in other countries, I’m not going to stop them.” She smirks. “But if they think I’m doing anything more than hanging out with the locals and seeing the sights, they’re dead wrong.”

Dipper can’t help but smile, shaking his head in disbelief. It feels so right, talking to her like this. But it also feels a little too familiar.

“I should probably go,” Dipper clears his throat again, feeling steadily more uncomfortable by the second. He can’t seem to stay balanced, can’t seem to keep a grasp on reality. Coming out into the woods alone had been a mistake, made even more so by running into Pacifica. 

Except, when he goes to turn away, Pacifica does the unexpected once again and grabs at his wrist, keeping him in place.

“There’s no way I’m letting you go without getting some sort of explanation first,” she scolds. “What the hell was all that about? You looked like you were having some sort of nervous breakdown.”

“I was just…” Dipper feels compelled to say, but then stops. There’s no way to explain this, now ay to properly justify what was going through his head without making sound even more insane than he probably already is. “It wasn’t-”

“Don’t lie to me, Pines,” Pacifica stops him before he can do just that. She lets go of his wrist, crossing her arms over her chest again. It’s surprisingly intimidating. “I haven’t seen you in almost five years. Don’t make the first thing you do after all that time be lying to my face.”

And if he had a hard time figuring out what to say before, his brain completely flat lines at that. Especially because his gut reaction, his first and most powerful instinct, is to give her what she wants and tell her everything. In fact, he almost does, very nearly crumbles into a mess of words and truths and fears right there at her feet. But he can’t. Part of him isn’t sure he ever could.

“I’m just going through some… things,” he decides to say, not quite a lie, but so incredibly simplified that it may as well be one. “That’s all.”

“Uh huh,” Pacifica frowns, not even pretending to believe him.

“Really I-” Dipper tries to smile but it feels as fake as it probably looks, and Pacifica’s unimpressed stare only encourages him to give it up. So he sighs, looks away, and crumbles. “I’ve just been having a really bad… few years. Nothing’s really been the same since… Um, well. Since.”

Pacifica’s face softens a bit, even if she does still roll her eyes at him again before speaking. “I don’t need to know what happened, Dipper, but it’s obvious you need to talk. So come on.”

“Come on where?” Dipper blinks, watching as Pacifica turns around and starts walking, just expecting him to keep up. He follows without really thinking about it.

“Inside,” Pacifica says with a shrug of her shoulder, leading him up the long pathway to the Northwest Mansion. “It’s a lot warmer than out here. Plus, my parents aren’t home and the staff is on vacation. We can raid the kitchens if you want something to drink.”

“Didn’t your parents know you were coming home?” Dipper asks as he passes by row upon row of perfectly trimmed hedges and a color pallet of flowers. 

“Once they put me on the flight to Nepal, they stopped keeping track of my schedule,” she explains, plugging a number into the keypad next to the main gate. It groans to life, slowly inching open. “I’ve been home once or twice since, but I don’t make a habit of it.”

“Right,” Dipper nods, even if it sounds like a lot is being left unsaid. He’s hardly in a position to judge. Everyone has secrets, parts of themselves they’d rather not talk about. So when she opens the door and walks inside, her back straightening and her shoulders tensing, Dipper stays silent about it.

He hasn’t been inside the Northwest Mansion since his run in with the lumberjack ghosts, but everything looks exactly the same, kept in the sort of pristine conditions one would expect more of a museum than a home. Pacifica picks up the pace, bee-lining it for the kitchens. Though she goes out of her way to make a path straight through the white and grey carpeting at the side of the room first, and Dipper can’t help but smirk.

The kitchen is industrial and massive, exactly how Dipper imagines a five star restaurant’s might be. Pacifica only bothers to turn on the light above a large island at the center of the room, taking off her coat and throwing it atop the black, marble countertop.

“Pick your poison,” she says offhandedly as she throws open the fridge’s stainless steel double doors. “Soda, coffee, tea, booze.”

“Oh, uh…” Dipper tries, walking awkwardly over to the island. He’s still not really sure what he’s doing here, and Pacifica seems equally as uncomfortable, if not for very different reasons. “Water’s fine, I guess.”

Pacifica looks over her shoulder at him for a second before bending down to pull out a bottom drawer. The freezer, judging by the cloud of frigid air that escapes. When Pacifica stands back up, she’s holding a fancy looking bottle with frosted glass and a gold label.

“Vodka it is then,” she says, closing the fridge doors with her hip.

“I don’t really think I-” Dipper tries, but Pacifica has already grabbed two shot glasses from one of the cupboards, putting one of them down in front of him with enough force to shut him up.

“You’re obviously not going to relax without some help,” she says matter-of-factly, pouring some vodka into her own shot glass first before filling his up as well. “And you’re not going to talk to me about whatever it is you need to talk about until you’re relaxed. So drink up.”

Everything feels a little too surreal for a moment. Not in any sort of Bill related way, but more of a completely bewildered, totally unexpected, can’t quite believe he’s here right now with a still mildly perturbed Pacifica looking at him, shot glass in hand, waiting for him to pick his up and join her sort of way. After a few seconds, he does, if only just because he feels like he has to, like it would be rude if he didn’t. She lightly clinks her glass against his and knocks it back, perfectly at ease, no coughing, no look of disgust, like she’s done this a million times before. 

Which is the exact opposite of Dipper’s sputtering, choking, his full body shiver as it burns all the way down. She chuckles at him in response, though, which makes it weirdly worth it, even if he is still embarrassed.

“You’re, um,” Dipper tries, though talking requires inhaling, which seems to reignite the burn somehow and he’s sent into another short fit of coughing. Once it clears, he tries again. “You’re really good at that.” 

Pacifica grins, smug. “Drinking age in Europe is eighteen. Find the right people to hang out with and you learn a lot.”

Dipper doesn’t drink. Or rather, never really thought about it much. Adding a chemical on top of his already shaky mental control only ever sounded like a mistake. But as Dipper’s chest starts to warm and his brain begins to go a bit fuzzy, he starts to wonder why he’s waited this long.

“Feeling any better?” She asks, and he’s not really sure why, but it feels a bit more genuine when he smiles at her this time.

“I… I think so?” He says, and then can’t help but chuckle at himself for some reason, because he really does feel better. And he shouldn’t. Because there’s nothing for him to feel better about. And that’s funny for some reason.

Pacifica is chuckling right along with him all of a sudden, which just keeps him going, even as she shakes her head at him and says, “Lightweight much?”

“I’m out of practice, I guess,” Dipper shrugs, still chuckling softly under his breath. “And by that, I mean, I’ve never had alcohol before in my life so.” He clears his throat, leaning against the island and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Is it supposed to hit you this quickly?”

“Not unless you’re a light weight,” Pacifica smirks, pouring them each another shot. They click the glasses together and knock this one back too, and maybe Dipper’s getting used to it, or maybe his throat has just gone a bit numb from the first one, but he doesn’t cough nearly as much this time.

After a few moments, the fuzziness melts into a quiet, comfortable haze, and he starts to understand why people do this, starts to understand why Ford keeps a flask of something dark and strong smelling in the same drawer as his journal or why Grunkle Stan always makes sure there’s a six pack of his favorite beer in the fridge. 

Pacifica was right. Sometimes you just need a little help.

Dipper reaches for the bottle without thinking, an addictive spark urging him to keep this feeling fresh, keep it going, keep him comfortable and sane and in control. Even though he’s not in control, really, nowhere near it. But he doesn’t care for once, and that’s worth a shot if he’s ever had reason.

Except, before his hand manages to get anywhere near it, Pacifica is pulling the bottle out of his reach.

“Sorry, Pines,” she says, shaking her head, but she’s still smiling at him, and the tension in her shoulders has lessened, her perfect posture slouching a bit. She looks softer all over, warmer. She puts the stopper back in the bottle and pushes it to the edge of the countertop. “I’m not trying to get you drunk, just loosen you up some.”

“Might have overstepped a bit then,” Dipper breathes, the words still tinged with a hint of a chuckle. “I feel a little...” He can’t think of the word, so he just offers a distinctly vague, slightly wobbly gesture in between them. It seems the closest to a proper definition of the slightly wobbly and distinctly vague feeling inside of his head.

Pacifica laughs again, and he really likes the sound of it. It makes him feel warm all over. Well, _warmer_. That second shot seemed to heat up his insides, making him feel like he could walk back outside in nothing but his pajamas and sleep on the forest floor and be perfectly-

That train of thought slows him to a stop, a growing unease beginning to knock at the door to some dark, momentarily forgotten portion of his brain, demanding access. Pacifica must see something in his face, because she’s talking almost as soon as the feeling begins to take form. He jumps on the distraction, letting her voice and the buzz of the alcohol remind him of how okay everything is right now.

“So now that your inhibitions are properly lowered,” she starts, jumping up onto the countertop to sit and letting her legs dangle, the heels of her knee high boots kicking at the metal of the island beneath in soft, rhythmic taps. “Start talking.” When he doesn’t jump in right away, she gives him a look, motioning with a tilt of her head for him to join her on the counter. He does, hopping up next to her in a much more graceful motion than he expected for how off-kilter he feels.

“I don’t really know where to begin,” he says.

“I’d say, ‘At the beginning,’ but sometimes that’s not where you need to start,” Pacifica says, and maybe it’s just his vodka-addled brain, but she sounds an awful lot like some sort of shaman, like Confucius, or Mr. Miyagi. Dipper snorts and Pacifica rolls her eyes at him, and for a split second, they’re not sitting next to each other in the Northwest Mansion’s kitchen, but on the edge of his hospital bed.

The half-laugh gets caught in his throat, his face going cold. He tries to swallow but he can’t seem to get past the dry ache of leftover alcohol and growing tightness.

“You’re always helping me,” Dipper hears himself say on half second delay. “Even when it’s not really you, you’re always helping me, and I never get better. I just keep on messing up. Falling back into his trap. Every time. Like I’m setting them for myself without realizing.”

Dipper’s sure Pacifica is looking at him like he’s crazy, but he’s resolutely staring at a small scuff on the tile instead. As much as it stings, he’s not exactly surprised to hear her say, “You’re not making any sense.”

A harsh breath of completely humorless laughter escapes him. He lets his head fall between his shoulders, hands clutching to the point of painfully at the ledge of the countertop. “I know I’m not. I don’t… I have a hard time with that. Making sense. It’s not… Nothing really makes sense in my head anymore, so trying to explain doesn’t really… There aren’t really words to…” Dipper clenches his eyes shut tight, his pulse quickening. He can feel the panic approaching like an oncoming storm, far enough way that he’s not getting drenched just yet, but he can feel the pinpricks of an ice cold drizzle against his skin.

“Dipper, look at me,” Pacifica’s voice registers again, similar in a way to before, out in the woods. Like she’s been trying to get his attention for a few moments already, but he’s been lost, distant. Distracted by the whirlwind picking up inside his head. He has to pry his eyes open, drag his head towards her; it feels like an unusual amount of effort. She’s blurry for a moment, though whether it’s from the vodka or from clenching his eyes so tight, it’s hard to tell. He tries to blink it away, but she keeps fading in and out of focus. Definitely the vodka.

“Sorry,” Dipper mumbles, trying to look away again. It’s easier to look at something not moving, like the floor or the kitchen cabinets. It’s easier to look at something that is completely unfamiliar, something that doesn’t have the face of a girl who once told him, _You’ve survived this whole time, right? You just have to keep surviving a little bit longer._ Something that isn’t the girl who both was and wasn’t his first kiss.

_Second._

Dipper’s mind flashes first to fruit flavored chapstick and soft lips, then unwillingly switches to a hand on the back of his neck and teeth digging into his bottom lip and the words, _I’m not_ making you _feel anything._

Dipper feels his face go hot, an uncomfortable heat roiling to life at the pit of his stomach. But then fingers are pinching harshly at either side of his face, a stern grip wrenching his attention back in Pacifica’s direction. He stares at her with wide eyes, lips parted in shock.

“Stop that,” Pacifica scolds, not letting go of his face until it’s obvious he’s calmed down some. It takes a while, and multiple deep breathes, but eventually things feel a little clearer, though not exactly less overwhelming. When she finally drops her hand, Dipper’s jaw hurts. “You’re only making things worse by staying inside your own head on this one, you know.”

Dipper knows she’s right, but he doesn’t know how to get out of his own head anymore. That’s the scariest part. How opens his mouth to say so, but luckily, it looks like Pacifica isn’t expecting a response.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” she frowns, looking away for a moment. “But unless you’ve changed into an entirely different person in the last five years, the Dipper I used to know was nothing if not resilient. Probably even to a fault. Strong too. Way stronger than I used to be.” She looks back at him and the smile she shares with him feels special, like not many people get the opportunity to be the receiver of it. Dipper almost feels guilty, like he doesn’t deserve it. 

“A lot of crazy shit has happened in this town, most of it that summer that you and your sister showed up. Like you guys brought it with you or something.” She says all of a sudden, kicking her boots against the island again. The look on her face is almost nostalgic, like it’s a pleasant memory. Even though it shouldn’t be. “But it didn’t matter how dangerous or supernatural or downright insane things got,” she continues. “You always dove right in head first. Like you were the only one who could save things. Like you’d taken the weight of all of Gravity Falls on your shoulders.” She pauses for a moment, long enough that Dipper thinks she must be waiting for him to respond, but before he can, she adds, “I was jealous of you for a long time, especially after you saved everyone from my stupid family’s prophecy.”

Dipper doesn’t know which to react to first, her being jealous of him, or her forgetting the most important part of that story. Without thinking, he says, “You were the one who saved everyone. I got turned into a tree.”

Pacifica scoffs at that, but goes on unfazed. “You never thought. You always just did. I almost didn’t pull that lever because of how much thinking I was doing.” She runs a hand through her hair, the angled bob falling perfectly back into place. “I almost didn’t do a lot of things. But once I stopped thinking… Well. Sometimes you’ve gotta just dive in head first, I guess. And I’m trying to say that I learned that from you, but apparently I’ve been in America for too long, because this vodka isn’t helping me get my point across.” She takes a breath and Dipper can see her physically steel herself before looking back in his direction, a fire in her eyes.

“You’ve been an inspiration to me for a long time, Dipper Pines, so don’t go ruining that by thinking too much, alright?”

And he _definitely_ has no response to that. He barely manages to do much more than nod, and even then it feels kind of like a lie. How does she have so much faith in him when he’s spent the last six years not even sure if he has what it takes to get out of bed in the morning? How can she believe in him so fiercely when he barely believes he’s not still in Bill’s mindscape?

How does she always know exactly what to say when all he’s ever done is convince himself it’s not worth listening? Not to Ford and his certainty that Bill’s to blame for everything. Not to Grunkle Stan and his blatantly forced optimism. Not even to Mabel and her declarations of hope, her promises that things will get better, one day they’ll get better, he just has to keep trying.

But something in him wants to listen to Pacifica. Something in him wants to believe. Maybe it’s just a part of him clinging to the memory of her, to the fabrication of her. Or maybe it’s a desperate, childish fantasy, that if anyone could motivate him, comfort him, inspire him, it would be her. Even if it’s an ideal with absolutely no basis in reality.

But then again, it’s not like he’s been living very well in reality all this time anyway.

“Pacifica, I-” He starts to say, not even really sure what plans to come out of his mouth, but she holds up a hand, cutting him off right from the get go.

“I don’t know if this helped you at all,” she says, jumping down off of the countertop and stretching an arm over her head. “But I guess what it boils down to is, talk to me if you want. I can’t guarantee I won’t tell you you’re being stupid, but I’ll listen. And if you don’t want to talk to me, then fine. But if you keep getting stuck inside your own head, one of these days you won’t be able to get out.”

It sounds a little too close to home, far too close to his situation for comfort, but he knows she’s right. Even if she has no real idea of what’s going on, she’s still right. At its core, it’s advice worth heeding.

“Sometimes,” Dipper sighs, jumping down from the island as well. He stumbles, bracing himself against the countertop to wait for his brain to stop rocking. “Sometimes I feel like I’m still stuck inside my own head. Even right now, like if I think about it too hard or too much, I can convince myself-” He pauses, almost involuntarily, like his mouth doesn’t even want to form the words. He forces it to anyway. “That I’m not really here.”

He’s never said it out loud before, not since that first few moments after escaping the mindscape. It feels simultaneously like a step in the right direction and a death sentence.

“Well that’s stupid,” Pacifica says with a huff, placing her hands on her hips. Dipper deflates. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but being so bluntly shut down wasn’t it. Clearly, she can see all this on his face. “What? I told you I’d tell you if you were being stupid and you are.” If it’s possible for Dipper to deflate further, he does. It feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him a bit. But Pacifica grabs his hands, forces him to stand straighter, pay closer attention.

“Look, Dipper,” she says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re right here, right now. Nowhere else. It’s impossible to get trapped in your own head forever.” And he instantly wants to argue, tell her she doesn’t understand, that he was held captive in his for so long, so long. But she’s already continuing, moving on with her point, and it stops him dead. “But if that’s something that genuinely frightens you, than find ways to prove to yourself that you can get out when you need to. Find ways to convince yourself that you’re here and nowhere else. You’re in control of your own mind. You’re the only one who knows how it works, right? So find its strengths and weaknesses and kick your own ass if you have to.”

He knows it’s meant to be more of a pep talk than actual advice, but something about her words resonate, like the beginnings of a melody scratched on staff paper, not quite a symphony yet, but getting there. Slowly but surely. One instrument at a time.

Dipper looks down at their hands, still clasped together, and he feels his face warm. Her hands are soft, a little cold still from holding the vodka. He doesn’t want her to let go.

But whether it be the universe telling him not to go down that road, or just a sudden realization on her part, Pacifica quickly pulls her hands away and takes a step back.

“So that’s it then?” Pacifica sniffs, pointedly not looking in Dipper’s direction. Dipper feels his face heat, his hands strangely cold now that Pacifica isn’t holding them.

_That’s it?_

Dipper’s mind instantly shoots back in time to stolen kisses, surprise moments of intimacy in the halls of the mental institute. He can practically feel her lips on his like a phantom ache permanently tattooed on his skin. Is that what she means? Does she want him to-?

“Getting stuck inside your own head?” Pacifica adds, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Is that all you’re afraid of?”

_Apparently not…_

Dipper tries not to be disappointed, and fails just as miserably at that as he does at not being embarrassed at himself. Why would she want him to do something as stupid and unprovoked as kiss her? Just because he’s been holding a torch for her since the hospital doesn’t mean she returns any aspect of those feelings. 

She invited him over to talk, to get him to relax, to calm him down when he was very nearly hyperventilating at her feet. This is the Pacifica that is real, the one that exists. The one who would pour him shots of vodka and hold his hand but not kiss him. She has no reason to. Not like he does.

And it’s disappointing and embarrassing and yet, he’s almost grateful for it, like having a life line to hold on to when the waves get too big. The real versus the fake. The concrete versus the figment.

“It’s a bit more… complicated than that,” Dipper says after what must be an incredibly awkward and way too long pause. “But yeah. Getting stuck inside my own head, being trapped there, barely managing control… I don’t think I’m strong enough to do that again.”

Pacifica raises an eyebrow at him. “Again?”

And that’s… Not something Dipper’s ready to talk about. If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure he ever will. All those years ago, night after night, Mabel tried, even begged sometimes, but it’s like reliving your own death. In his case almost literally. 

It’s something impossible for him to forget, but by not talking about it, at least he can pretend to live a normal life. And if he pretends enough, surely it’ll come true. One day. Not that that helps him with the way Pacifica is staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Waiting for him to talk.

“Haven’t you ever felt trapped?” He deflects, instantly hating himself even as the words keep coming. “Like you’ll never be able to escape? But then you do. And it’s so impossible that it doesn’t feel real. Like any second now, you’ll realize… You’ll realize you never really escaped at all.” He glances at her and the look on her face is equal parts stunned and disgusted. So he looks away, mumbles into his shoulder, “There’s nothing more terrifying than that.”

He’s not even really sure why, but it feels like a low blow, like any sort of opening he might have had to get to know Pacifica better, to allow her to get to know _him_ , has been shattered. A sinking realization made only more concrete by the way Pacifica suddenly takes a step away.

“You should probably go,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest a bit more forcefully than usual. Dipper tries not to feel guilty, but he does. “I’ve got to repack my bag and stuff for my flight to Belize tomorrow so I-”

“Will you-?” Dipper interrupts suddenly enough to catch them both off guard. What is he doing? It’s like a part of him is clinging again, desperately reaching out to her even as he pushes her away. He pauses, swallows, and tries again. “Will you walk back to the Shack with me first? Or at least part of the way?” He’s blushing furiously now, face hot and probably noticeably red. He’s not even sure why he’s asking. That’s not true. He knows exactly why. “It’s just… If I go back alone-” He stumbles over his words, not quite sure how to say this. He opts for truthfully. “I’m scared that I’ll find a way to convince myself this never happened.”

It sounds so stupid out loud, and even Pacifica doesn’t quite know how to respond, it looks like. But eventually, she just shrugs, grabbing her coat off the countertop. “I have no idea what you mean, but alright.”

Dipper doesn’t even bother to hide his sigh of relief, or the smile that follows. And as she accompanies him back to the Shack, it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to reach out and hold her hand.


	3. You Are Now Leaving Gravity Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family Day arrives. And so does a possible revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. Real Life got the better of me, I guess. Fair warning, I've never been to the Pacific Northwest College of Art, so everything I describe should be taken with a liberal amount of creative license. Sorry in advance for any of you who go there, all I had at my disposal was google.
> 
> I'll try to be better about updating this time around, but life hasn't really quit being an ass to me just yet, so we'll see. Hope you enjoy this chapter anyway. Thanks to everyone who's been sticking with me all this time. You make finishing this worth it.

Family Day comes a lot sooner than he expects it to. Not that he’s been doing much in the week leading up to it, but it still seems to approach without his knowledge, like it snuck up on him, waited to spring until he was at his least ready.

He doesn’t want to go. It’s an irrational sensation, but that’s what it boils down to. He doesn’t want to leave, almost doesn’t think he can.

But he knows he has to, and while his time with Pacifica was short lived, it stuck with him, keeps him from figuring out an excuse to get Grunkle Stan to let him stay. It’s a testament to his reliance on the memory of her maybe, an unquenchable addiction to her presence in his life, her advice, regardless of whether she’s real or all in his head. He wants to do right by her, even if she has no idea what he’s doing right by.

Not going feels like failure. Not going feels like giving up. And as much as he wants to feign illness, curl up in his bed and chicken out, he can’t help but hear the words, kick your own ass if you have to, over and over again, a mantra played on repeat in the back of his head.

“Ready to go, kiddo?” Grunkle Stan smiles, even if it’s a bit nervous. Not that Dipper blames him. It’s a long trip to the Pacific Northwest College of Arts, and it’s been months since the two of them have had a conversation that’s lasted longer than ten minutes.

“Ready,” Dipper says, even though he really, really isn’t. 

He throws his duffle bag in the backseat and opens the passenger side door, hesitating for the umpteenth time when a feeling very similar to terror grips at his chest. Dipper looks around out of reflex, but it’s just him, the woods, and Grunkle Stan, already settling in behind the wheel. He takes another deep breath, one more, but it does nothing to settle the steadily rising beat of his heart. Dipper gets in the car anyway. It feels like stepping up to a guillotine. 

As Grunkle Stan turns the car around, Dipper glances once more at the Shack, surprised to see Ford leaning against the doorway, watching them go. Dipper contemplates waving, but can’t seem to raise his hand. It’s because he’s clutching at his seatbelt in a sort of death grip, apparently. And by the time Stan has turned the car towards the main road, Ford has already gone back inside anyway.

Dipper takes a breath, leans back into the seat, closes his eyes.

He can feel the wheels of the car grinding against the asphalt, hear the sound of the wind rushing against the windows as they pick up speed. It feels like the volume is raised up a notch, like he’s over-sensitized to the world around him. 

Once again, he’s wracked with the feeling of something telling him to stay put, to stop, to go back, go back, go back. It’s almost made worse now that the car is moving, the sensation borderline painful, like being dragged over a ledge, nails catching at rocks and gravel and dirt.

A fresh wave of panic overtakes him and Dipper nearly caves, nearly begs Grunkle Stan to stop the car, but a bump in the road combines with Grunkle Stan’s less than legal driving skills, and Dipper has a substantial bout of new and unrelated fear to focus on.

There’s nothing that should be keeping him here. From a completely objective standpoint, Dipper knows that. But that doesn’t necessarily diminish the gripping nausea as they hit the mile marker before the entrance to the town. That doesn’t give reason to the irrational bout of overwhelming terror that envelopes him as they approach the sign stating in a disgustingly happy font, _You Are Now Leaving Gravity Falls!_

Every inch towards the town line feels like a mile, every second like a year. Dipper closes his eyes tight, begs himself to stop freaking out. But it’s like his mind is stuck on repeat.

_Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. I’ve gotta go back. Stop the car. Let me OUT._

“Dipper?” Grunkle Stan’s voice sounds too soft, too far away. “Dipper, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, even though he’s not fine, so far from fine it’s practically a joke.

It’s always been difficult, leaving Gravity Falls at the end of the summer. Each time a little harder than the last. It’s why he stayed this time, why he let Mabel go to college while he locked himself away in their attic bedroom. Because leaving had gotten too hard. Leaving had stopped being worth it.

But this? This is bordering on something else altogether. Leaving has always been hard, yes. But it’s never been painful.

Grunkle Stan is speaking again, but Dipper can’t seem to focus on what he’s saying. It feels like it’s taking all of his strength just to remember to breathe.

_I can’t leave. I can’t leave. Just stop the car. Turn around. Take me back. I can’t leave. Please stop the car. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go back. I need to go back. Take me back. I can’t leave._

_I can’t leave._

_I can’t-_

Everything stops. 

The feeling is instant and undeniable. Like someone has been screaming directly into his ear only to very abruptly go silent. Dipper sits up, his eyes flying open, catching sight in the side mirror of the sign that marks the entrance to the city, cheerful looking letters that shout, _Welcome to Gravity Falls! Nothing to See Here, Folks!_

Dipper feels his lungs compress, a rush of breath escaping him as he collapses back into the seat.

It’s gone. That overwhelming need to go back, that agonizing, terrifying desperation has just… stopped.

It’s not possible. It doesn’t make sense.

“You with me, Dip?” Grunkle Stan’s voice finally registers. Though it still takes a probably uncomfortable length of time for Dipper to respond.

“I um-” Dipper starts, and even his words feel different, lighter somehow. “I’m alright. Sorry. I don’t… Sorry, I’m fine.”

 _I don’t know what happened_ , Dipper almost says. Because it’s one hundred percent truth.

Dipper doesn’t even know where to begin to describe the last few seconds. It’s almost as if he’s become an entirely different person with an entirely different mentality ever since crossing the town line. Which is insane.

Unless it’s not.

But no. If there had been some form of supernatural persuasion keeping him from leaving, he would have noticed before. He’s gone home at summer’s end every year since his thirteenth birthday. He’s crossed through the border of Gravity Falls six times so far. Not once has he ever felt something as drastic and all encompassing as that.

It always seems to get easier, when Dipper and Mabel are back home. Not back to normal or anything, not by a long shot, but better.

So what if-?

“You sure you’re doing alright there, kiddo?” Grunkle Stan asks, and when Dipper finally manages to pry his eyes away from the car’s side mirror, the view is replaced with the undeniable expression of nervousness and concern lining his Grunkle’s face.

“I’m-” Dipper starts to say, not really sure what else to add besides the general placating, but Stan continues on before he has the chance.

“Because… Because, I can take you home,” Stan clears his throat, both hands on the wheel, eyes locked steadfast on the road ahead. “Back to the Shack. I can- I mean. If that’s… You know. If that would make you more comfortable.” Dipper feels like he’s drowning, his head breaking through the waves one second only to be consumed by them the next, treading water the whole way just in attempts to stay alive. And then Grunkle Stan finally glances in Dipper’s direction, eyes sad and says, “We’re not that far out yet. I can turn back around.”

And Dipper’s whole world sinks beneath the spray, his legs cramping from overuse, his lungs inhaling mouthful after mouthful of salty water. It’s relief and panic and calm and chaos. 

He should say yes. He should go back. He wants to. God does he want to.

But he should say no. He should focus on now, on how different it feels on this side of the town line. He wants to do that too. But that means admitting that something other is responsible for that need, that desperation, that _stay, don’t go, you can’t leave Gravity Falls._

And as much as he wants to, he can’t bring himself to believe that just yet. It feels like the makings of a curse he may not be able to break. It feels too easy. Impossibly so.

It takes Grunkle Stan pulling over to the side of the road for Dipper to realize he hasn’t responded. The anxiety scratching at the back of Dipper’s ribs picks up speed, trying to claw its way clean out of his chest.

_Take me home. Turn around. I can’t do this._

_Don’t stop. Keep driving. Get me out of here._

_I shouldn’t leave Gravity Falls. I can’t leave Gravity Falls._

_I’m already so close. Just keep going. Just a little bit further._

“It’s alright, kid. I’ll take you back. I’m sure Mabel will understand if you-”

“No,” Dipper takes a breath, removing trembling hands from where they’ve been gripped much too tightly at the sides of his seat. “No, I-”

_Don’t stop now. Keep going._

“I’m alright, Grunkle Stan, really.” Dipper tries to smile, but it comes out shaky and awkward. 

_Keep going. Before I change my mind._

“You sure, kid?” Grunkle Stan frowns, hand already on the gear shift, ready to turn the car in reverse. Dipper has to bite back against the rush of temptation.

Don’t ask me that. Don’t give me that choice. Just drive. Just keep going.

“I’m sure,” Dipper nods, making sure his voice is steady, even if inside his head there’s only screaming, panicking.

Grunkle Stan is silent for a moment, motionless in Dipper’s periphery, but then he says, “Alright, kid. If you say so. But once we reach the highway, there’s no turning back.”

_Keep going. Before we run out of time. Before it’s too late. Before that feeling comes back and I can’t fight it anymore._

_Before I realize my mistake._

Dipper nods, more to himself than to anyone, and tries not to sigh in relief when Stan pulls back onto the road.

He has no idea what’s going on inside his head right now, or how much of it is self inflicted, but just to be safe, Dipper casually but silently locks the passenger side door when Grunkle Stan isn’t looking.

.o.O.o.

By the first rest stop, Dipper’s convinced himself it was all in his head, that the whole situation was a product of his own post traumatic stress. By the second rest stop, he’s convinced himself it was Bill, still in his head, even now, trying to get him to stay in Gravity Falls where he’s at his strongest. Or possibly even using reverse psychology to get him to leave, allowing Bill to use whatever link they still share to spread his demonic intentions throughout the Pacific Northwest.

By the third and final rest stop, Dipper’s convinced himself that he still has no idea what’s going on. His mind has been trying to tear itself to pieces for years now. Maybe it just finally succeeded.

The entirety of the trip, minus those first few minutes, Dipper and Stan don’t say a single word to each other.

That is until they pull up to the college campus.

“Alright,” Stan grunts, reaching across Dipper to the glove box. When he pulls it open, a cacophony of papers, candy wrappers, pens, and other things Dipper doesn’t want to examine too closely, nearly come spilling out. Somehow, without sparing much more than a half a glance, Grunkle Stan knows exactly what to grab from the mess of it. “Here,” he says, shoving one of the papers into Dipper’s chest and closing the glove box, swerving an entire lane as he does so. “Mabel’s building is the one I circled in that top right corner. Get us there, will ya?”

“Uh, sure,” Dipper blinks, scanning the piece of paper, on which lies a map of the campus and a few details in a key at the bottom. Things like library times and what sports teams are looking for new members, a list of meal plan options for the cafeteria. 

It’s a flyer from Mabel’s orientation.

It’s such a strange realization, that there’s a part of her life he’s not involved in anymore. It almost doesn’t some possible. Real, yes. Definitely happening. But still impossible somehow. Unfathomable. He wants to know everything she knows, wants to be everywhere she’s been.

But he also he knows he gave up the right to that the moment he let her get in Stan’s car without him.

This is her world now, and surely there’s no place for a brother who can barely differentiate between reality and fiction.

“You make a pretty terrible navigator, kid,” Stan sighs, startling Dipper back to attention. They’re sitting at a four-way intersection, Stan’s car already inching past the stop sign. “I’ve been asking you right or left for the last five minutes.”

“Oh,” Dipper straightens out the paper, loosens his hold on the corners where he’s gripped them into a wrinkled mess. “S-Sorry. Um, left.”

Another couple of turns and they’re on what the paper advertises as North Block. The whole area can probably best be described by one word: Picturesque. Even if it wasn’t Mabel’s first choice, something Dipper will probably always feel guilty about, the campus suits her. He can see her in the artistic designs of the buildings and the lush greenery surrounding it. He can envision her walking along these streets, using her free time to make her way through the twenty different art galleries the map talks about. He can picture her making friends and living her life. He can see it all, but only from a distance. A movie starring Mabel Pines, only vague whispers of a brother in the credits.

_This was a mistake._

Not for the first time, he’s hit with the gripping anxiety that he shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have tempted fate like this, shouldn’t have played with fire like this. All of her texts and phone calls seem so happy, so full of excitement and energy. All of her selfies, an obscene amount for only being on campus for a week, are filled with smiles and friends and enthusiastic cataloguing of her new life.

Adding Dipper into the mix will only end in disappointment. He’s sure of it.

Finally, Grunkle Stan pulls the car into a parking lot next to the freshman dorms, a large, art-deco looking building literally proclaiming itself as ArtHouse. Dipper would laugh if he wasn’t already consumed with being irrationally terrified. So much so that he’s barely cognizant of the journey from car to building to Mabel’s dorm room.

In fact, it takes the door swinging wide and Mabel’s beaming smile to jerk him back to the present.

“Bro bro!” She practically shouts, not even giving him time to walk through the door before barreling into him, arms wrapped tight around his waist, squeezing too hard to even really call it a hug. It’s more of a stranglehold. A death grip.

Dipper hugs her back. 

_God I missed you_ , he says without saying anything at all.

Mabel pats him once, twice on the back.

 _Missed you too_ , it seems to say in silent return.

“Alright, alright,” Stan groans from behind them. “Let your Grunkle have a go already.” 

Dipper can’t help but snort, pulling away from his sister a bit reluctantly to let Grunkle Stan wrap her up in a hug of his own.

“Hey, Grunkle Stan,” Mabel says, and even her voice sounds like it’s beaming.

“Hey there, pumpkin,” Stan says back, and Dipper’s suddenly twelve again, shooting off fireworks and playing with water balloons and thinking that maybe, if he wished hard enough, the summer would never end. 

In some odd, twisted way, maybe it had. Genies are notorious for screwing up wishes, after all.

It takes Dipper a moment to realize that Mabel has been talking to them, leading them by the hand into her dorm room for a proper tour. Even though it’s not that large, Mabel has made impressive use of the space.

Her scholarship has swung her a mini-suite, a standard living area separating two rooms connected at the back by a shared bathroom. Her room is the one on the right, which Dipper would have been able to guess without explanation based purely off of the amount of posters and photos currently taped to the door. Dipper walks up to it as Mabel shows Grunkle Stan the kitchenette, breaking down every aspect of her roommate’s and her shared space.

The door is littered mostly with things Dipper would expect. A Duck Detective: The Movie advertisement, a poster of Sev’ral Timez, a picture of her, Candy, and Grenda. But it also has some things Dipper wouldn’t have expected. Like a map of Gravity Falls with areas circled that make no sense, a sketch of Ford that she must have drawn in one of those rare moment when he was sleeping outside of his lab. Or at all.

There’s also a picture of her and Dipper floating towards the middle of the collage. It’s of their thirteenth birthday. Dipper doesn’t remember it being taken, but it’s easy to tell when it was. Dipper is looking to the side, eyes frightened and lips parted in shock, and while Mabel is still smiling, her eyes are locked in Dipper’s direction, a photo taken just seconds before a meltdown. 

He doesn’t even really know what had triggered him, just that one second he’s awake and present and happy, blowing out candles and opening gifts, and the next, nothing is real and Mabel is a lie and the icing is spilling over the edge of the cake, filling the room in sugary sweet quicksand, drowning him, suffocating him, suddenly tasting like maple syrup.

Why Mabel would choose that picture to keep, let alone hang on her door, out in the open, Dipper doesn’t understand. If it were him, he’d have burned it.

A hand on his arm startles him back to the present. Dipper spins around to see Mabel, hand still loosely clasped around his wrist, her eyes worried despite the hint of a smile on her face.

“You alright, Dip Dop?” She asks with a tilt of her head. It takes Dipper a moment to respond with words, but he manages a bit of a nod to start. Her eyes soften, though she doesn’t look away, doesn’t let go of his wrist.

Eventually, Dipper musters a shaky attempt at a smile. “Just… Admiring your door,” he says. Mabel looks at him for a long moment, trying to determine whether it’s necessary, or possibly even worth it, to pry. So Dipper cuts her off before she has the chance to decide. “So where’s your roommate then?” Mabel’s eyes narrow a bit, surprised and reasonably suspicious, so Dipper throws her a scapegoat. “Surely you don’t expect to keep living with someone who doesn’t have the twin brother seal of approval?”

Mabel smiles as if she can’t help herself, and finally, if not cautiously, lets go of his wrist.

“I told her you guys were coming,” Mabel says at last, a hint of an edge to her voice that slowly, steadily recedes the more she talks. “Her family’s not going to be able to make it, so I’ve adopted her as an honorary Pines for the weekend, alright? Make sure and treat her like a part of the family.”

“You mean dysfunctional and constantly on the brink of emotional devastation?” Dipper smirks, but the jibe falls flat, Mabel and Stan looking at him in equal parts shock and sadness. A heat settles along the back of Dipper’s neck. He clears his throat. “J-Joking…”

It takes far too long, but eventually, Grunkle Stan grunts out a pathetic attempt at a laugh. Still, Dipper’s immensely grateful for it. “We’ll try not to scare her off,” Stan grins, and thankfully, Mabel takes the moment to laugh off the tension, even if she’s not really looking in Dipper’s direction anymore.

There’s the sound of a key card sliding into the mechanism on the other side of the door, and then suddenly, a small girl with light purple hair and what appears to be a giant pile of laundry for a body stumbles in.

“Oh!” She blinks when she notices the new arrivals. “Y-You’re here already! I wasn’t… I mean, we didn’t expect you guys for another few hours.”

Dipper frowns at his sister, twin telepathy causing Mabel to shrug in feigned innocence before the words even leave his mouth. “How lost were you expecting us to get?” Dipper huffs, and Mabel looks almost hesitant before answering.

“I just wasn’t sure if Grunkle Stan was going to be able to convince you to come,” she says, a bit too seriously, her attempt at maintaining a jovial smile bordering on uncomfortable to watch. “I figured, if he did… It would have taken him a while.”

Dipper’s not really sure what to say to that. She’s not wrong; he’s surprised he managed to convince himself to come as quickly as he did. For all the inner turmoil he’d faced, he’d only really hesitated for about an hour or two before caving. Still, there’s guilt there, to have caused her to doubt him. And it’s mostly that that keeps him from saying anything at all.

Luckily, Grunkle Stan has gotten very used to breaking their awkward silences over the last few years. Bless him.

“So, you must be the honorary Pines,” he says to Mabel’s roommate, offering to help her lower the overflowing pile of laundry to the floor. “I’m your new Grunkle Stan.”

“Oh, um…” The girl chuckles nervously, fidgeting with the too-long sleeves of her black hoodie, holes cut into the tops of the fabric for her thumbs to poke out. “I don’t think I need to be an honorary anything, really. So, you don’t have to-”

“Nonsense!” Mabel falls into an authoritative stance and Dipper can’t help but chuckle at the look of fear that crosses her roommate’s face. Either Mabel doesn’t notice or simply chooses to press on regardless. Probably the latter. “It’s already been decided. This weekend, you’re Chelsea Pines, member of the clan. So without further ado, meet your new Great Uncle Stan and awkward brother, Dipper.”

Chelsea straightens, still noticeably anxious even as she sticks her hand out in Grunkle Stan’s direction with a smile. “Nice to finally meet you guys. I’ve already heard so much about you.”

“All terrible, I hope,” Dipper clears his throat, reaching forward to take her outstretched hand when it points in his direction. Chelsea grasps it more firmly than he was expecting for how hesitant she still seems.

“Not at all,” she smiles, and before she can let go of his hand, she pauses, eyes roaming over his face. “Wow,” she says, a bit distracted. “You guys really do look a lot alike.”

“Well,” Dipper blushes, though he’s not really sure why. Probably the scrutiny. “We’re twins so…”

“Oh, I know!” Chelsea drops his hand quickly, a blush of her own spreading across her cheeks. She’s back to messing with the ends of her sleeves in a heartbeat. “I just mean… Fraternal twins aren’t usually… They don’t often look as similar as you guys do. Usually it’s just the regular twins that look alike. Not that you’re _irregular_ or anything. It’s just… Cool, to have a sibling you look so much like. I’m kinda jealous.” 

The blush has spread all the way to the tips of her ears by the time she’s rambled her way back to silence. Dipper shakes his head, both floored and somehow slightly endeared. Mabel couldn’t have found more of a polar opposite for a roommate, and yet, they suit each other somehow.

“I’m jealous of your hoodie,” Dipper offers, and sure it might sound a bit awkward and definitely a non-sequitor, but Dipper figures it’s better than silence. And definitely better than letting the poor girl suffer. “I didn’t realize they made merchandise for Noragami.”

Chelsea perks up instantly, her whole face practically beaming in newfound excitement. “They don’t! I had to buy it through a Japanese site! The shipping was crazy expensive, but it was so worth it, right?”

Dipper can’t help himself, laughing a little as he nods. “Right.”

The next few moments are spent talking about the anime, everyone seemingly relaxing into it, even Grunkle Stan, regardless of the fact that he knows next to nothing about it. Having something to talk about that’s meaningless, something completely unrelated to everything for once… It’s kinda nice.

Which means it’s obviously not going to last.

“I’ve been watching a lot of different shows recently,” Dipper shrugs when Chelsea asks him about his other anime favorites. “It’s an easy way to pass the time, you know?

“For sure,” Chelsea nods in comically stern understanding, but then once again, her face breaks into a warm, enthusiastic smile. “Oh right! Mabel told me you were taking the year off. Are you applying here next year then?”

That same tension from before falls like a tarp over the whole room, fills in every inch of it like steadily rising water. Everything gets a bit colder, a bit darker, a bit more suffocating. Even Chelsea seems to notice, her smile faltering as she looks from Dipper, to Mabel, to Stan, and back, her unease growing with each flick of her eyes. Eventually Dipper clears his throat, breaking the silence. Not because he wants to, just because he might drown if he doesn’t. 

“Yeah, um,” Dipper chokes out, looking down at his feet. “M-Maybe.”

He almost misses it, definitely wishes he had, but out of the corner of his eye, Dipper sees Mabel’s shoulders slump.

“Well, the kid’s got a year to decide, so,” Grunkle Stan mumbles a bit awkwardly, the tension not necessarily dissipating, but loosening its hold some at least.

Dipper tries to smile at Chelsea, tries to pretend it’s not obvious that she knows she’s walked into a touchy subject. “So, we’ve um,” Dipper croaks, tries to get the words out past the tightness in his throat. He coughs, tries again. “We’ve been driving for a while. Is there somewhere around here where we can grab a bite maybe, or-?”

Mabel latches onto the mission like a lifeline, practically sprinting to her room to get her purse. She grabs Chelsea by the hand, saying something about it being her treat when the girl protests, and leads everyone out the door.

The rest of the day goes by in an odd blur, Mabel seemingly trying to find as many things for them to do as possible. It may not be a conscious decision on her part, but it’s obvious Mabel’s trying to distract him. By the end of the day, they’ve managed to visit all of her favorite hangouts, meet a good portion of her friends, and even join them all for a dinner that Dipper almost, maybe, might have a little bit of fun at. That vice-like grip on his chest that he’s had all day almost, maybe, might loosen a little bit. Being away from Gravity Falls almost, maybe, might feel easier and easier as the night progresses.

But no matter how distracted he gets, no matter how much fun he tries to have, there’s no avoiding the inevitable. Eventually, they have to return to Mabel’s dorm. Eventually, they have to settle in, turn off the lights, pretend that the silence isn’t going to consume them all.

Eventually, Dipper has to go to sleep.

It doesn’t come easily, definitely not quickly, both things Dipper’s hardly a stranger to. Every time he starts to drift off, his heart jumps in panic, wrenching him back to consciousness. Thoughts swarm in like bees, keeping him awake, paranoid. What if Bill followed him here? What if coming means putting Mabel and Chelsea and any number of students here at risk? What if he has another nightmare and wakes up screaming or crying or Bill forces him to sleepwalk out onto campus in his underwear or-

Dipper shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes hard enough for stars to erupt across the darkness. Once they clear, he takes a breath, another, one more, until his heart stops clawing at the inside of his rib cage. Carefully, almost afraid of what he’ll see, Dipper opens his eyes and glances at the stove, numbers illuminated in a bright green right above the burners.

It’s nearly five o’clock in the morning.

Dipper can hear Grunkle Stan snoring up on the couch next to him. Surely Mabel and Chelsea are sleep by now too. But Dipper’s been tossing and turning on his air mattress for over three hours so far.

Part of him genuinely considers giving up on sleep all together, maybe grabbing Mabel’s laptop and watching the rest of that new anime Soos recommended him. But the other part of him has been through this debate before, and he knows he’ll hate himself far more tomorrow if he gets no sleep at all. So, reluctantly, Dipper closes his eyes one more time, taking measured breaths to calm the ache in his chest. Eight counts in, eight counts out.

It doesn’t come easily, definitely not quickly, but after a while, Dipper falls asleep.

He dreams about a school for samurai penguins.


	4. Nothing To See Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a funny thing, control. Funny and complicated. And also suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first and foremost, I apologize for dropping the ball on this one. I wanted to wait until I'd finished the final chapter to post it, but it's been too long. So I figured it was time. I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Secondly, thank you immensely to everyone who's stuck around with me on this. Your comments and kudos and just general attention for this fic (which honestly means so much to me) has kept me from giving up. Life is a bitch sometimes, but I'm so near the end, and I want it to be good. So thank you for your patience and your support. This fic belongs more to you than it does to me now.
> 
> And lastly, I can't promise you that the final chapter will be out next week like I used to, but I can definitely promise you that it WILL get done. You have my word.
> 
> Thank you again, my loves. As always, I hope you enjoy.

If Dipper had to pick a word to describe the way he feels the next morning, it would probably be Confused. Really, it’s a cocktail of Refreshed, Relieved, Suspicious, Happy, Concerned, and maybe even still a little Sleepy, but mostly just… Confused. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he had a normal dream. He’d gotten so used to the nightmares that he’d almost forgotten what a normal dream felt like.

Somehow, as if their twin connection has flickered back online, Mabel is on him the moment she wakes up, flopping herself onto his air mattress hard enough to nearly bounce him off.

“Sleep well, Bro Bro?” She asks, a look in her eye that says she already knows he did. Dipper can’t help the sheepish grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth. He nods, and without giving him the chance to actually speak, Mabel tackles him into the mattress with a fierce hug. “I’m so glad! See? You just needed to get out of Gravity Falls for a while. A change of scenery!”

Even as Dipper laughs softly into her shoulder, attempting half heartedly to push her away, something in those words resonates. The drive the day before plays in slow motion at the back of his mind, the sense memory gripping weakly at his chest. The need to stay, the fear of leaving, it had been completely physical, like a magnet reaching desperately back towards town from somewhere in the center of his chest, willing to rip him apart from the inside to get back to it. But then… But then.

The moment he’d passed the town line, everything had just… stopped.

Could it really be that simple? Getting himself out of Gravity Falls, getting himself away from the root of all those painful memories?

But no, there has to be more to it than that. It’s not just PTSD, it can’t be. Whatever keeps luring him back to Gravity Falls summer after summer has to be the same thing that keeps making it harder and harder for him to leave. It’s gotta be something tangible, something real. A physical force with a supernatural grip on his mind and body. It’s gotta be something to do with Bill. It’s not all in Dipper’s head. It’s not.

His dreams last night are proof of that. 

And if his mind is currently too far away for Bill to dig himself inside, that means-

“You alright, Dip Dop?” Mabel is asking him suddenly, and it takes Dipper a second to realize that he’s been staring at a spot between the TV and the coffee table for what’s probably been an awkward amount of time. Schooling his features back into something a little less serious, Dipper nods, runs a hand through the mess that is his morning bed head. He can think more about this later. He can come up with a plan later.

For now, “How about we go check out some of those places that were closed yesterday, yeah?” He says with a smile that feels more genuine than it has in years. Mabel must notice, because her eyes widen a fraction, her lips part, bottom one trembling, and then she’s got her arms wrapped around him again.

“Yes!” She laughs, burying her face in his chest. “Definitely! Absolutely!”

“Alright, alright!” Dipper laughs right along with her. “Come on, you’re choking me!”

“Sorry, I just…” She clings a little bit tighter, still not lifting her head. Her voice cracks on her next words, tone so soft he could probably convince himself she hasn’t spoken at all. “I missed you. That’s all.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, really. He’s been present this whole time, but he knows that’s not what she means. And she’s not talking about the time since she’s been here, taking that first step towards college and away from him, even though that might be part of it. 

But no.

He may have been around all these years, a part of her life, but it’s only been physically, he’s come to realize. His mind has been elsewhere, occupied, distracted. Consumed. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he can think again. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he can see Mabel again, feel the comfort of her presence. For the first time in a long time, he feels truly, completely here.

“I missed you too,” Dipper whispers into his sister’s hair, matches her clinging grip. Because he really, truly did. He just, somehow, hadn’t realized until right now.

For a few brief moments, part of him thinks about staying. What if he could find a way to never go back? What if he could hold on to this feeling forever?

Is running away really so bad?

A sort of giddiness grips at Dipper’s chest, slithers between his ribs to wrap in vibrating tendrils around his heart. He’s smiling wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. He suddenly can’t sit still.

“Come on,” Dipper pulls himself away and scrambles to his feet, still holding onto Mabel’s hand. “Let’s get ready.” She looks a bit stunned for a moment, but then a similar smile, a familiar smile, stretches across her face.

He wants to see it more often, feels guilty for taking it away for so long.

He wants to stay here.

He doesn’t know how he’ll make it work, but at least for right now, he can imagine, the option settling over his shoulders like a blanket, all comfort. If it means feeling like this, staying like this, why can’t he? Is it really running away if he’s just doing it to protect himself? To protect Mabel and Stan, maybe even Ford?

Dipper walks into the bathroom and looks at his reflection in the mirror, his hair ruffled away from his forehead from sleep, framing his birthmark, the triangular scar. It looks lighter, somehow. Is that possible? Or just his imagination? Either way, he combs his fingers through his hair, letting the strands fall back into their proper place, forehead covered. 

If he runs away, will it fade completely over time? Will everything else?

Dipper takes a breath, tries out a smile. Sometimes, when he looks at his own reflection under florescent lights, against a backdrop of white walls, he sees himself in hospital attire, hears the sound of the mental ward right outside the door. But right now, he looks rested. Right now, his smile looks shaky but genuine.

Right now he feels better than he has since he was twelve years old.

Running away. Is that even really what it is? If it means seeing this reflection, feeling alive and present, sleeping through the night, wouldn’t it just be self-defense? Surely there would be nothing wrong with that, right? Never going back?

He’d forgotten what optimism felt like, even if it’s tinged with a hint of suspicion; old habits die hard. But it’s there, tapping at the base of his spine asking to be let in, waiting patiently when it realizes he’s afraid to.

Never going back to Gravity Falls, clinging to this feeling, this hope instead… He knows it’s the safest choice, maybe even the wisest choice. But why does it feel like cheating?

“Ready, kid?” Grunkle Stan’s voice calls out from the other side of the door, knuckles rapping hard on the wood for emphasis. “We’re gonna start heading downstairs.”

“I-I’ll catch up,” Dipper stutters, trying to shake the thought from his head. But it breaks the door down, latches on tight. He’s liable to get whiplash from the mood swing, all the giddiness from earlier leaving him in a rush. Even if it is running away, that doesn’t make it cheating. And… And it’s not running away anyway, it’s self-defense. He repeats the same thoughts over and over again, as if he can recreate the optimism from before by sheer will alone. If there’s something controlling him in Gravity Falls, staying as far away from it as possible is just being _smart_ , isn’t it?

But he doesn’t even know _for sure_ if that’s true though… does he?

What if it _is_ just all in Dipper’s head? What if he only _thinks_ he’s escaped something by being here?

What if that dream last night was just a fluke? Or worse. Planted.

The groan is clawing its way up his throat and out into the open before he can stop it, a harsh, frustrated sound that’s definitely loud enough for Mabel and Stan to hear. Hopefully they left already. Hopefully they’re not still around to see. He’d been doing so well, he can still fake it, if he just… If he just… Dipper closes his eyes, grits his teeth, tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls hard enough for the pain to clear his mind a bit.

Now this, _this_ , is all in his head. He was absolutely _fine_ five minutes ago. He’s just doing this to himself, getting all worked up over nothing, _nothing_. Just focus on that feeling from before, focus on that giddiness, that comfort. Focus on anything but the feeling of hands clenched tight around his heart, or the sound of echoed, distorted laughter in his ears. Focus on Samurai Penguins, or Mabel’s whispered words of relief, or-or anything, god _anything, please just stop this, stop this, why can’t I get out of my head, even for just a second, please just let me OUT!_

He slams a fist down on the counter. The sound hits him on half second delay, a crunch and a snap, the cracking of something hard and plastic. The pain comes next, a bright flare fading into a deep ache, a throbbing, stinging mess that spans the length of his hand. When he looks down, there’s blood already dripping past his wrist, pieces of black plastic stuck deep in his skin. When he looks further, he sees the broken remains of a small makeup pallet, the parts of the lid not currently stuck in Dipper’s hand cracked beyond repair. He can see the colorful circles peeking out from beneath it, some of them also ruined, crumbled into chalky remnants of their former selves.

He hopes it belongs to Mabel and not Chelsea. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s accidently broken one of her things during… one of his fits.

“Fuck,” Dipper sighs, running his uninjured hand over his face. Someone’s knocking on the door again, probably Stan. He sighs deeper, his hope that everyone had left ahead of him deflating. Though, it’s not like he’d be able to hide what he’s done to his hand. Mabel will know. Mabel always knows. There’s another knock, the sound of a voice, but he’s too busy staring at the little pieces of black plastic embedded in his skin. He barely even notices when the door creaks open.

“I-I’m sorry,” Chelsea is suddenly standing in the bathroom, not quite looking at him. Dipper feels a bit off-kilter; he’d honestly forgotten she was here. “I knew you were still in here, but I heard a noise and it sounded like you’d hurt yourself and-” Her eyes fall to his hand, then to the broken makeup pallet, then back, widening further along the way in something akin to panic. “What… What happened?”

Dipper suddenly feels very, very foolish. Pathetic, even. Definitely ashamed of himself. “It’s, um…” He starts. Eloquently. “It’s nothing.” Chelsea just continues to stare at him, mouth open slightly in equal parts confusion and concern. Dipper clears his throat, suddenly not quite sure what to do with his bleeding hand. He hasn’t bled on anything yet, but a long, red drip has started to make its way down his arm. Maybe he should start by finding some tissues, or toilet paper, or maybe it would be best to get the shards of black plastic out of his-

Oh. Um.

“If that was yours, I um,” Dipper tosses a glance at the makeup pallet and then at Chelsea, not really able to keep it there for very long. “I’ll pay for it. For another one, I mean. This one’s-” He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence. So instead, he picks another one, falls back into an old, awkward routine. “The, um, eye shadow just. Wasn’t my color.”

It’s not exactly a laugh that escapes her, more of a surprised choke, but then, she’s shaking her head, smiling a bit nervously, even if her eyes are still lost, worried. “You should probably, um,” she starts, gesturing to his hand. Dipper nods. And then, after another moment of neither of them moving, neither of them speaking, she adds, “Do you want any help?”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Dipper says, already pulling a wad of toilet paper off the roll. 

“I-I know you don’t _need_ my help,” Chelsea rephrases, and when he glances at her, she looks like she’s trying to physically will the words to come. “But do you _want_ my help? Maybe? I mean… It looks painful.”

Now that he’s mopped up most of the blood, he can tell that she’s right. The plastic still in his skin is sticking up at odd angles, and when he goes to pull out one of the bigger pieces, he can’t help wincing in pain. It’s a lot deeper than he expected.

“Here,” Chelsea clears her throat, and suddenly, her hands are on his, her fingers gentle as she leads him closer to the sink. “Hold your breath, okay? It helps. And I’ll try to be quick.” Dipper nods, a bit stunned. She seems different, somehow. More focused, not stuttering. It’s grounding. “Ready? One, two-” She pulls out the first piece, the biggest shard, and Dipper grunts in pain, swallowing back the natural shout that tries to escape. Chelsea drops the bloody piece of plastic into the sink; it falls with a clink against the light pink porcelain. When she looks at him again, it’s with a soft, less nervous smile. “One down, three to go.”

“Th-Thanks,” Dipper breathes, watching in a mixture of awe and trepidation as she gets to work. One sliver of plastic after another is removed from his hand, the wound cleaned with antiseptic and then pulled tight with what Chelsea tells him are called Butterfly Sutures. “You’re good at this,” he hears himself mutter in surprise as she uses gauze and bandages to finish up the process. He’s not quite sure, but he thinks he sees her blush at that.

“I want to work in pediatrics,” she says. “When I’m older, I mean. After grad school.” Her hands tense, pushing a little too hard as she connects the edge of the bandage to the rest with a piece of white tape. Dipper tries not to flinch. “I don’t mean that you’re like a kid or anything, I just mean, there are basics, you know? Like, things you learn while you’re studying th-that kinda get stuck in your head. And… And Mabel always hurts herself working on her sewing and stuff so. So it’s good to know. G-Good for practice.” She lets go of his hand, everything tucked away nice and safe, only a small stain of red where he’s bled through the top part of the bandage. “There. A-All better.”

Dipper wiggles his fingers, the ache still present but less so, his skin pulling taught against the sutures but otherwise fine. Way better than some of his injuries in the past. “Yeah,” Dipper smiles. “Thank you for-”

“I know you probably don’t want to talk about it,” Chelsea cuts him off, looking at a spot somewhere over his shoulder, which is an interesting feat consider she’s a good couple of inches shorter than him. “And y-you don’t have to. But if you want to, you can. To me, I mean. You can talk to me.” When she lets her gaze drift downward, latch onto his, it’s with a surprising amount of seriousness. “I know you don’t really know me, but Mabel talks about you all the time, and I can tell she’s worried about you because she loves you a lot, but sometimes it’s easier.” Chelsea takes a breath and lets the seriousness on her face melt away into something resembling comfort. An awkward, nervous sort of comfort, but comfort nonetheless. 

“Sometimes it’s easier talking to someone you barely know instead of forcing yourself to talk to family,” Chelsea says. “So I’m here. If you need me.”

There’s no real way to describe the emotion that clamps down on his heart at that. Something akin to awe and surprise and guilt and gratitude. Either way, Dipper wills himself to smile, focusing on how thankful he is for the offer instead of how ashamed he is that he merited one.

“Thank you, Chelsea,” he smiles, even if it feels a bit forced. “And thank you for this,” he adds again, holding up his hand. She nods, not really looking at him anymore. Her cheeks look a little red, like she’s blushing, though he can’t imagine why.

“Dipper!” Mabel’s voice follows the rushed click of the front door. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Sorry,” Dipper chuckles under his breath, suddenly oddly tired. “My bad, I’m coming. Chelsea and I got distracted.”

Mabel appears by the bathroom door, arms crossed. “Distracted by-?” Her eyes latch onto his hand and the frown that pulls at the center of her brows is telling enough. 

“I’m okay now,” Dipper smiles at her, tries to cut her off at the pass. She looks at him, still frowning, concern still obvious, but years of practice has taught her when to concede. So she nods, ignoring the look of surprise Chelsea gives her. Dipper has no doubt Mabel will confide in her eventually, over time. He’s kind of glad for it. Despite the rambling, mousy disposition, Chelsea seems like someone he’d want to confide in too, and someone a lot more perceptive than you’d expect.

“You ready to go then?” Mabel asks, more tense now then before. Dipper swallows back the shame at that and nods, looking over at Chelsea.

“You coming?”

She shakes her head. “I have a paper due on Monday.”

Dipper raises an eyebrow at her in shock. “Already?”

She just smiles, shrugs. “Pre-med.”

Dipper chuckles, the bandages tight but comforting around his hand. “Well… Have fun then, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Chelsea smiles, a bit shy, her face still red. “You too.” Mabel looks between them, her look of concern morphing into a grin that makes Dipper decidedly uncomfortable. So much so that he can’t help but clear his throat in response, grabbing Mabel’s wrist and leading her away.

“Come on,” Dipper mumbles. “I thought you were in a hurry.”

Mabel doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t need to.

There are a surprisingly few places they hadn’t hit the day before. A few restaurants, a museum that’s only open on Saturdays. Mabel plays the perfect tour guide, showing them around and giving them lectures on her opinions, matters of historical importance, and already flowing campus gossip. Lunch eventually turns into dinner, everything highlighted by the variety of events spread throughout campus for Family Day. Dipper gets to see some of Mabel’s classes, gets a complete tour of the campus, and by the end of the night, even gets invited to the Greek Row’s Open House Family Day Party, or so the flier he’s handed proclaims.

“We should go!” Mabel grins, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Dipper looks over her shoulder at Grunkle Stan, unsure. He’s no help, shrugging noncommittally.

“I’m heading back to the dorm,” he says. “My back is killing me. Just be safe or whatever. And don’t wake me up when you get back in.”

Mabel nods in excited compliance. Dipper can do little more than swallow back his nerves. It’s been years since he’s been to a party. Probably since before… all of this. He has memories of a couple when he was twelve, one that ended in zombies and another that resulted in clones of himself. Even to this day, he still misses Tyrone.

“Dipper,” Mabel grabs his uninjured hand, squeezing it tight. It takes Dipper a moment to realize that Grunkle Stan has already left, that he’s just standing there in the middle of the sidewalk. “Don’t worry,” she says when Dipper finally manages to drag his gaze back to hers. She’s smiling, all bubbling hope and optimism. Like he was this morning. “It’s gonna be a blast. I promise.”

Even though he doesn’t really believe her, he nods anyway, letting her pull him towards the Frat house depicted on the flier.

The party is already in progress when they get there.

For as massive as the Tau Kappa Epsilon house is, there are enough people loitering about in the main entrance to make maneuvering their way inside quite a feat. Mabel seems right at home amidst the swarm of bodies, the clamor of bass-heavy music and chattering college students. Dipper just feels overwhelmed, out of place. And maybe a little claustrophobic. Enough so that, when Mabel grabs his hand and starts pulling for him to follow, he clings tight against her grip and goes willingly.

They duck into the first relatively vacant area they find—the kitchen—and even that’s crowded. Most people are milling about, leaning against the counters, others simply coming and going once they’ve refilled their stereotypical red solo cup with some variety of fresh drink. Mabel grabs one for herself, a punch from the bowl on one of the tables, and hands Dipper an empty solo cup expectantly. It’s not as though he expects there to be booze in anything he chooses, at least not during Family Day, but the idea that there might be makes him nervous. And also uncomfortably eager. He remembers at once what it felt like drinking with Pacifica, the way the edges of his anxiety seemed to dull, the weight on his shoulders lifting inch by inch the more vodka he choked back.

It’s despite this, or maybe because of it, that he scoops a little of the punch into his own cup as well. Surely if there was any liquor, it would be kept hidden, not out in the open where a parent could realize what’s in it. Though, it’s not as though Dipper’s never heard of “somebody spiking the punch” before. 

Dipper watches as Mable takes a rather substantial gulp, letting out a content sigh after a moment as though her thirst has been sufficiently quenched. No sign of a similar reaction to his first tango with something eighty proof, but he hasn’t been around Mabel in weeks. Maybe she’s already got more practice in. Carefully, Dipper tips back his own drink, letting it roll over his tongue, to the back of the throat, and down. No burn. No sign of any alcohol at all. He’s not nearly as surprised by that as he is the bubble of disappointment that wells up at that fact. 

Looks like he’s going into the fray unarmed.

After Mabel refills both their cups, not that Dipper has taken more than a sip of his, Mabel is leading them towards what Dipper can only assume is the main room. The source of the music becomes clear the moment they pass through the threshold, the floor practically vibrating with the intensity of the subwoofers placed in the back corner, the speakers stacked next to a rather impressive looking mixing table. The DJ weaves from song to song effortlessly, colors flashing and sparkling in time from an elaborate light display at his back. His preference seems to stray towards shades of red, illuminating the red and grey decorations that adorn his table in a fiery hue.

Now that he mentions it, the color scheme everywhere Dipper looks seems to be red and grey, from the shirts people are sporting to the decorations pristinely littered about the room. TKE’s House Colors, surely. Or, at least, Dipper would have made that assumption if his eyes hadn’t begun to latch on to another recurring theme in the decorations.

Everywhere he looks, no matter what surface he tries to direct his gaze, there are triangles. Big, red and grey, fucking, _triangles_. The after image is already burned into his retinas when he tries to close his eyes, his heart leaping into his throat. This has to be some sort of _joke_ , right? This can’t possibly be _real_ , right?

“Dipper?” He hears Mabel say, her voice distant and barely audible over the sound of music. He can’t open his eyes though. He’ll _see them_ if he opens his eyes. But he’s seeing them _now_ , light blue-ish outlines against the backdrop of his eyelids, and this can not be _happening_.

Not here, not when he’s so far from Gravity Falls, with no excuse for why he-

Something rams into his side, jostles him hard enough to spill half his drink onto himself, the floor. Another person. Dipper looks up, blinking, the shock of being ripped so completely from his panic attack leaving his mind blissfully if awkwardly blank. Thankfully, the recipient of the second half of Dipper’s drink seems willing to overlook it.

“Shit, dude! I’m so sorry, that one’s on me, fuck!” He says in a rush, grabbing for some paper towels off a side table. He wads way too many of them into his hand and starts attempting to soak up the punch dripping down Dipper’s front by pressing the lot of it into his chest. Dipper stumbles back a step, still unbalanced, very nearly floored. Somebody behind the guy snickers, maybe says something under his breath, but Dipper can’t hear it. The guy can though, looking over his shoulder with a frown. “Shut up, ass hole,” he says, though Dipper can’t tell to who exactly. It seems a lot of people are suddenly looking at them.

Dipper catches up to himself a bit at that, a strange sort of heat rising to his face. “It’s fine. You don’t, um,” Dipper clears his throat, reaching up to still the guy’s hand. “You don’t have to-”

The guy stops, looking from Dipper’s shirt to his face, and it’s really not till that moment that Dipper realizes. Dark skin, light brown eyes, angular features, full lips that tug into a smirk the longer Dipper stares. This guy… Dipper’s pulse picks up a bit. This guy is _attractive_. Not in the same way he finds Pacifica attractive, or finds Chelsea kind of cute even (what?) but in a way that’s strangely familiar. A way that makes his chest feel tight and his stomach twist. In a way that’s not exactly bad, but is definitely very, very confusing.

“Come on,” the attractive frat boy loops around behind Dipper and grabs him by the shoulders, leading him down the hall. “At the very least, I owe you a shirt.”

The farther away from the music they go, the less crowded it becomes. Something at the center of Dipper’s chest jumps to attention. “You r-really don’t have to-” he tries, but the guy just chuckles, cutting him off.

“Don’t worry, dude. The house gives me more shirts than I know what to do with.”

Dipper doesn’t really know what to say to that, and it sounds innocent enough, so he just nods, mumbles a soft, “Oh. Okay,” and lets himself be led.

“I’m Cam, by the way.” 

Dipper can practically here the smile in his voice, has to swallow first before he can get out his own name in return. “Dipper.”

“Huh.” A soft breath against the back of his neck. “Cool name.” That heat in Dipper’s cheeks doubles.

Eventually they find themselves in a bedroom towards the back of the house, the floor plan obviously made to fit two people, though it only seems to house one set of furniture. Dipper stands awkwardly at the door, thankful that he wasn’t pushed further inside, but not quite knowing what to do with himself now that he’s been released from the strong, leading grip across his shoulders. He lets his eyes wander the room for lack of something better to do, taking in the standard blue and black bedding, still messy from being recently slept in, the books and papers piled on a desk in the corner, all standard things he’d expect from a college student. But there’s also a music stand and sheet music next to the desk, what might be a violin case propped up beside it, a signed poster of Star Wars: Episode IV next to his bed. And that’s a little… less expected.

A wad of red fabric is suddenly being hurled against his chest. “You’re a little smaller than me, I think,” Cam is saying, and Dipper has to forcibly pull his mind back to the task at hand. He unfolds the shirt and holds it up. He’s right. It looks a little bigger than Dipper normally wears, but it should be fine enough. It does have the added consequence of requiring Dipper to look at Cam’s build for comparison, though, more toned where Dipper is still a bit lanky, muscles that look built from something like swimming, or maybe martial arts. Calling him smaller is one way of putting it. Dipper would have said scrawnier.

A soft chuckle from Cam’s direction literally makes Dipper start. He shifts his eyes up to Cam’s face and the look of amusement there settles a fresh heat in Dipper’s cheeks. “You can come in, dude. There’s a bathroom in the corner if you wanna change in there.”

Though, as if to say, “Not that I think it’s necessary,” Cam punctuates the offer with the swift and shameless removal of his own drink-saturated shirt.

Dipper walks into the room, hesitant step after hesitant step, and contemplates closing the door. There’s no one in the hall, and Cam obviously doesn’t seem to care either way, however, so Dipper leaves it open, instead making his way a bit further inside for more privacy. 

Well, he says privacy.

Dipper feels almost hyper aware of Cam’s eyes on him as he takes off his shirt, rushing to put the new one on in a way that must be painfully obvious. It feels painfully obvious. If it is, Cam doesn’t say anything, though, which Dipper chooses to be grateful for instead of insulted by.

If it’s possible, once they’ve both got their new, dry shirts on, the atmosphere becomes even more awkward, bordering on tense. Dipper wants to break it, needs to even, but he can’t seem to figure out how. _I should probably get back to my sister? I guess I could use another drink? Do you like guys and were you interested in possibly letting me kiss you to see if I like guys too?_

Wait what?

“Shit, dude,” Cam sighs, smirking despite the shake of his head. He’s leaning against his desk, chuckling softly to himself in a way that doesn’t sound very amused. If anything, it sounds a bit… disappointed? When he latches on to Dipper’s gaze again, it’s with something akin to concern. “Did I make you that uncomfortable with the whole shirt thing? I was just trying to be nice.” Dipper opens his mouth to apologize, but Cam cuts him off before he gets the chance. “Well, maybe flirting with you a little bit, but mostly just being nice.”

Something flips rather pleasantly at the center of Dipper’s chest. He can’t help the words that escape past his lips on a stunned breath. “You were?”

Cam shrugs, still smirking. “I only intended to bump into you a little bit, you know? Get your attention. But my asshole of a Big may have gone overboard on that one, so yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s-” Dipper swallows back the nervous giggle that tries to crawl up his throat; he knows it would probably end up sounding a bit hysterical. He definitely feels on the edge of hysterics. “It’s fine,” he manages to get out eventually. Even succeeds in adding a soft, “Thank you. For the shirt, I mean.”

After a second, Cam smiles, a grin that takes up his whole face and sets that pleasant something in the center of Dipper’s chest alight again with a warm burst. He’s not sure if he’s flirting back, Dipper’s never really been good at that sort of thing, but Cam is smiling, and walking towards him, and doesn’t seem disappointed anymore, so that’s good. That’s good, right?

“Sorry for coming on so strong,” Cam hums, walking just shy of the border of Dipper’s personal space. “You just looked kinda cute, you know? Eyes closed, all listening to the music and shit.”

Dipper can’t help but stare back in silent confusion, wracking his brain for the moment Cam is talking about. It takes far too long for him to realize the misunderstanding. But it’s not like he can say, “Oh, I wasn’t listening to the music, I was having a triangle-induced panic attack,” so Dipper just nods, chuckling a bit nervously in response. Thankfully, Cam doesn’t seem to catch on.

“So Dipper,” Cam takes another step forward, passing that point of casual proximity. Dipper can feel the sudden added nearness like a tingle of electricity against his skin. “Am I still reading this wrong? Or would it be alright if I kissed you?”

In all his eighteen years, Dipper’s never been asked that question. So that might be why it takes a painfully long time for him to even open his mouth in attempt to reply. Cam is mercifully patient with him, though his confident smirk can’t help shifting inch by inch into something more amused than flirtatious the longer it takes.

Finally, after what must be years, Dipper gives up on words entirely and just nods.

Permission granted, Cam covers the distance between them in one step, inching towards Dipper until the backs of his legs are pushed flush against the dresser next to Cam’s bed. This close, Dipper can see every detail of Cam’s face, the sharp line of his jaw, the added whiteness of his teeth against smooth, dark skin, the flecks of gold around the pupil of his eye. He can practically feel the couple of inches of height Cam has over him, almost but not quite looming over Dipper as he places a hand on either side of Dipper’s hips. He leans against the dresser and successfully cages Dipper in. Cam’s tongue darts out to run along his bottom lip, and Dipper can’t help but watch it. He’s so out of his depth, practically overwhelmed to the point of paralysis with the whole situation. 

But he’s also never been more eager to feel someone else’s lips pressed against his own. It’s a sensation he’s not used to, this feeling of being chased, being lured in and cornered like prey. And simultaneously somehow, this need to be caught, to draw Cam in too, to feel skin on skin as quickly as possible. On something akin to automatic pilot, Dipper even notices himself leaning in, waiting almost impatiently for what Cam has promised. Every thought in his head, every rush beneath his skin, every frantic beat of his heart is deliciously intoxicating, perfectly distracting, wonderfully new.

And yet. Strangely familiar?

Cam doesn’t give Dipper the chance to dwell on the almost-revelation, choosing that moment to finish covering the leftover distance, meeting Dipper halfway.

Dipper’s eyes flutter closed at the first feel of wet, slightly chapped lips, brushing against his own. That first contact sends a bolt of pure energy racing down his spine, a shudder trembling out in waves from the very center of his chest. Despite his lack of practice, especially in this area, Dipper can’t help but kiss back, pouring himself into the motion, letting the desire lead him to press further, part his lips a bit wider, trace his tongue along Cam’s bottom lip.

Cam moans at that, the sound twisting hot and adamant just behind Dipper’s belly button, and suddenly they’re kissing deeper, rougher, one of Cam’s hands reaching up to tangle in the hair at the back of Dipper’s head.

It almost makes him dizzy, the sheer determination of the kiss nearly knocking Dipper off his feet, which probably explains why it’s so easy for Cam to loop an arm around Dipper’s waist and pull him towards the bed. Dipper goes willingly, allowing himself to be led, everything in his head blissfully quiet but for the words _oh god yes, this is so good, why haven’t I done this before?_

Which is… strangely familiar?

Somehow Dipper finds himself straddling Cam’s lap, Cam’s back propped against the wall next to his bed. Cam has moved down his jaw, kissing lines of wet heat into his skin as he makes his way towards Dipper’s neck. Dipper’s head tilts back, his eyes fall closed, the sensation shivery and warm, a moan crawling up his throat. Being pressed so close, Dipper can’t help but rock against Cam’s lap, some desperate desire to get even closer taking over the more rational parts of Dipper’s body, his psyche, his everything. _God, this feels-_

_Strangely familiar._

Cam hums against the juncture between Dipper’s neck and shoulder, a reaction to the grinding together of their hips certainly, but Dipper’s mind has gone blank. And not blissfully, not anymore. Terrifyingly. Agonizingly. Because it all comes rushing back at that, the reason why this feels oddly familiar, the reason why his eagerness, his desire, has been just shy of frightening, a suspicious horror lingering just below the surface of his want.

Even their positions are the same, Dipper pressed against firm muscle chest to chest, a hard and determined sort of heat thrumming where their hips meet, smiling lips and sharp teeth trailing along the sensitive skin of his neck. Dipper shivers at the memory, tries not to get it confused with what’s happening, but-

But part of Dipper is suddenly back in Dr. Cipher’s office, straddling a different lap, clutching at the back of a different neck, melting under the touch of different hands, a different mouth. 

Dipper keeps his eyes shut tight, wills his heart to slow and his mind to focus through the fear and arousal. Because if he thinks too hard, he’ll convince himself that it’s real. He’ll convince himself that the moment he opens his eyes again, he’ll be staring at tan skin and a malicious grin, one demonic eye boring into his soul while the other sits hidden behind a shock of unnaturally blond hair.

Cam (or is it even Cam? Has it ever been?) runs a hand down Dipper’s spine, and Dipper can’t help but arch into the touch, suddenly hyper aware of every movement, every sound. Except, the more he feels, the more he hears, the more real the possibility becomes. If he opens his eyes right now, Cam will be gone, like he never existed. If he opens his eyes right now, Bill will be there instead, laughing at how easily Dipper has fallen into this trap, a moment set and waiting to lure Dipper in by the leash of his damned teenage hormones. If he opens his eyes, Bill will have won. Bill will have gotten under his skin again, again, poisoning him with a sick sort of heat, a twisted sort of need that he’ll never be able to shake. So Dipper keeps his eyes shut.

Or at least, he tries to, but the sudden return of a mouth against his surprises him, Dipper’s eyes snapping open. A choked off sound gets lost between their tongues, and Dipper can’t help but pull back, breath labored and eyes wide.

“You alright, dude?” Cam asks after a moment, equally as breathless.

And it _is_ Cam. Still Cam. Not Bill, not Dr. Cipher, just the same frat boy he’d been making out with this whole time. The one he’d wanted all on his own, the one he’d made his own decision to kiss, no trick or trap or deception involved.

And that’s… confusing. Isn’t it? Because Dipper’s _relieved_. He’s pretty sure he’s never felt so relieved in his life. He has his proof now, doesn’t he? Bill is nowhere to be found, not here, not outside of Gravity Falls. But Dipper also can’t shake the reality of what had just happened, the sheer force of Bill’s memory throwing everything off balance, tainting even this perfectly distractible moment with suspicion and doubt.

And just like that, it settles into place, a perfectly slotted cog in a watch face, a light blinking to life in otherwise complete darkness.

Dipper has to go back. He has to finish this. If he doesn’t, he’ll never be free of Bill. If he doesn’t, he’ll always wonder. No matter how far away from Gravity Falls he is, no matter who he’s with, a small part of him will always think he’s being tricked, that Bill has found a way back into his mind. And because of that, he’ll always be stuck half in reality, half in the dreamscape. He’ll never be better. Bill will have won. Even without making Dipper his permanent sock puppet, he’ll still have won.

The revelation leaves him almost as breathless as the kiss. He has to go back. He can’t run away. He’s going to finish this, find some way to get rid of Bill once and for all. It’s the only way he’ll ever be able to convince himself that he’s truly, completely free, awake. Present. 

It seems so simple.

“Um, Dipper…?” Cam is staring at him in something akin to concern, Dipper notices suddenly. Concern tinged quite heavily with lust, but concern nonetheless. Dipper clears his throat, tacks on a smile that surprisingly enough, feels completely genuine.

“Sorry,” Dipper chokes out, voice a bit too high, and he knows he sounds sort of frantic, maybe even bordering on hysterical (damn), but he can’t help it. It’s so simple. It’s so simple! He’s been staring it in the face this whole time, and all it took was one good-

Dipper places his hands on either side of Cam’s face and practically devours him, kissing him hard and rough and probably devoid of technique, but he can’t help himself, a surge of optimism overtaking him that’s so strong it puts this morning’s to shame. Their teeth click together more than once, moans get caught between them, hoarse and breathy, and when Dipper finally pulls back, his lips feel bruised, a bit swollen. Cam is staring at him wide eyed, not that Dipper blames him. Their first kiss was heated, yes. But this one? This one was something indescribable. Dipper’s pretty sure kissing has just become his new favorite past time.

“Sorry,” Dipper says again, licking his lips, the beginnings of a laugh lodged in his throat. “I got… distracted?”

Cam laughs in his stead, pulling Dipper closer, if that’s at all possible, and rolling their hips together. Dipper whimpers, practically aches, his heart stuttering, stomach flipping. This feels _real_. God, he never expected this to feel so _real_.

“I don’t know if I should be insulted, but I’m not complaining,” Cam breathes after a moment, leaning in to snag Dipper’s lip between his teeth. “Wanna keep going?”

He does. He really, really does. But more pressing even than that is his sudden desire to find Mabel, to explain his revelation. Maybe together, they can come up with a battle plan, something to take home to Ford tomorrow. Something to set the final wheels in motion. He can see the light at the end of the tunnel. God. For the first time in a long time, he can actually see it.

Cam must pinpoint the answer on his face before Dipper’s even opened his mouth to say it, Cam’s head falling back with a soft thud against the wall. He groans in disappointment, even though his lips are still pulled into a smirk, and Dipper can’t help but wince. If Cam is half as turned on as Dipper is right now, he can understand the frustration. But Dipper can barely sit still, his mind already racing with possibilities, things he’s overlooked in the last few years of self-destruction and inner turmoil.

“I’m-” Dipper starts to apologize, but Cam holds up a hand up in objection.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cam sighs, a short breath through his nose that’s somehow tinged mostly with amusement. “I definitely got more than I was expecting, that’s for sure.” He punctuates those words with a devious grin, and Dipper can’t help the heat that rises to his face. When Cam licks his lips again, Dipper finds himself chewing on his tender bottom lip in response, a soft moan itching to be released somewhere in the back of his throat. Cam groans again, a harsh breath through his nose, “Come on, dude, stop that,” and Dipper lets his lip fall free of his teeth at once. Despite the strain in his voice, Cam laughs. “If you’re really calling it quits though, you’re gonna have to get off my lap.” He adds. “Having you on top of me isn’t exactly gonna help get rid of my boner.”

If Dipper was burning before, his face is on fire now. “Oh, right! S-Sorry,” he practically squeaks, scrambling to remove himself from Cam’s lap. They both wince a bit at the motion, Dipper’s jeans still uncomfortably tight. “Um. There you go.” 

Cam blinks at him for a moment and then throws his head back again, this time mostly in laughter. Still, he runs a hand over his face in something that might also be exasperation. “God dammit you’re cute. Fuck. That’s really not fair, man.”

A second passes, then another. “Um... Sorry?” Dipper blurts out, mostly because he has no idea how to respond to that. Compliments have always made him feel uncomfortable, but a compliment like that? Flustered doesn’t even begin to cover it. Plus… Cute? He’s not really sure how to feel about that at all.

“Promise me something,” Cam says after a moment, getting to his feet. Dipper nods, waiting. This time, when Cam steps close, it’s with enough distance between them to be casual, friendly, but with an air of promise underneath. “Pledge for TKE during Rush.”

“I’m not-” Dipper starts to say on reflex, but even if he doesn’t know exactly what Dipper was going for, Cam cuts him off regardless.

“Not just because I want to pick up where we left off,” he says quickly, maybe even a little apologetically, like he truly doesn’t want Dipper to get the wrong idea. It’s endearing. “I just want to get to know you better. And I think it would be cool. Having you as a brother, I mean.” And as if he can’t help himself, he smirks, tacking on a soft, “And maybe also to pick up where we left off.”

Out of reflex, Dipper considers telling him that he doesn’t intend to go to college at all, let alone apply to the Pacific Northwest College of Art, but he stops himself. If they come up with a plan, a plan they actually manage to pull off, who’s to say he can’t? If they finally beat Bill, really truly beat him, what’s stopping Dipper from applying next semester? Hell, maybe even a late admission this one? 

Before Dipper can talk himself out of it, he nods. “Sure. If you put in a good word for me.”

“Raving reviews all the way,” Cam grins, gesturing dramatically out in front of him. “I’m nothing if not self serving.”

If the nervous giggle that escapes him isn’t sign enough, then the blush still spread across Dipper’s cheeks is probably a substantial sign that Dipper wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

…

 

Once they’ve both found their way back downstairs (after a lengthy chat about their favorite movies and a few splashes of cold water to the face) it doesn’t take long for him to find Mabel. He thanks Cam one more time for the shirt, offering once again to return it during Rush, and heads off into the crowd.

“Dipper!” Mabel shouts over the music the moment she sees him. She bounds up to him in equal parts excitement and relief. “Where have you been? I was- Whoa.” She stops, eyes going wide. Dipper suddenly feels caught, indecent, a hand reaching up to rub at the juncture between his neck and shoulder, only to be met with a tender spot beneath the fabric that’s surely been left behind by Cam’s teeth. He drops his hand back to his side.

“Wh-What?” Dipper clears his throat. “What are you staring at?”

The stunned “O” of Mabel’s lips has slowly begun to creep into a much too knowing grin. “Your head,” she says, the teasing obvious in her tone, even underneath the blaring techno the DJ has switched to. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re sporting a perfect example of some top notch sex hair, Bro Bro.”

Dipper’s hands instantly fly up to his hair, fingers combing through the tangles in attempt to get the strands to fall back into place. When Mabel doubles over in booming fits of laughter, Dipper can’t help but smile, even as he swats at her and yells for her to shut up. 

Giving up on his hair after a moment, Dipper grabs Mabel by the wrist and begins leading her outside. “We need to talk,” is all he offers to her question of where they are going, but something in his tone keeps her following. Surely she can see the eagerness brimming beneath his skin, the optimism swelling in his speech. If she looked hard enough, surely she’d be able to reach into his mind and hold the revelation in her hands, stretch it between the two of them until it’s something tangible and ready to be molded into a plan of attack. A plan for the future. His future.

But she doesn’t even give him the chance to put it in to words. The moment they’re outside, halfway back to her dorm where it’s quiet and dark and private, she pulls both of his hands into hers, eyes shining just as brightly as the smile stretched across her face.

“You’ve figured something out, haven’t you? Something about Bill?”

It takes Dipper a moment to get past his surprise, but when he does, he nods, smiling right back. 

 

…

 

They’re set to leave on the earlier side of the next day. Everything seems a little brighter, a little clearer. He’d dreamt about something incoherent and unmemorable again, and for hours prior, Mabel and he had worked out an incredibly rough but promising plan to take to Ford. Even as Dipper says goodbye to Chelsea, ignoring the way Mabel elbows her in the side when she thinks he’s not looking, everything feels lighter. Encouraging.

“I’ll be back soon,” Dipper tells Mabel as Grunkle Stan settles himself behind the wheel of the car. Mabel nods, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

“I know you will,” she says. Her grip tightens. “This’ll work. I know it. Because-” She pulls back, looking him in the eye with a watery gaze. “Because Professor Sinclair’s journalism class is only available next semester and you’ll need it for your mass media degree and, and…”

“And you looked that up for me?” Dipper raises an eyebrow, but only in jest. In fondness. Mabel shrugs, the shine of her eyes overflowing, spilling onto her cheeks in long, wet trails. 

“I’d hoped,” is all she says. But Dipper can hear everything written in between, all the unspoken lines of dialogue that didn’t make it into the scene. He nods, both for what she says and what she didn’t. He hugs her tight for all the things she obviously wants to say but doesn’t. Probably afraid to jinx it. He is too.

“I’ll text you,” he says, letting go.

“You’d better,” she responds, punching him much too lightly in the upper arm.

The next thing he knows, Dipper is buckled into the passenger’s seat of Grunkle Stan’s car, watching Mabel disappear as they pull away from the campus, away from the city, away from everything safe. Everything, only hours ago, he’d been willing to run away towards.

But now he has a plan. Now, there’s no more time for running. And hopefully no need.

Grunkle Stan tries to talk to Dipper a total of once. Dipper’s not even sure what he says. It might have been a question, but he’d been too distracted to answer. In two hours, he’ll be passing through the city lines into Gravity Falls. In an hour and forty minutes he’ll finally have a semblance of proof that Bill’s hold on him may not be entirely psychosomatic. In fifty-two minutes, he’ll know whether or not he imagined that feeling of release, the sensation of a leash being disconnected as he passed through the town lines and away. In Twenty-one minutes, he’ll know whether or not every sensation of _You can’t leave, You have to stay, There’s no where else for you to go_ , is nothing more than a latch in one of Bill’s shackles, a spider’s web ensnaring him the moment he enters Gravity Falls.

In fifteen minutes, he’ll know.

In seven minutes, he’ll have his proof.

In three minutes, there’s no turning back.

Dipper can feel the weight of expectation sitting like a brick at the pit of his stomach. Part of him wants to be right, but he also knows that being right means forfeiting the sense of cognizant peace he’s gained. Being right means handing over the reins, allowing himself to give up his present control for the possibility of some in the future. And as much as he wants his proof, it’s hard to take that risk. It’s hard to convince himself of it’s worth. He’s only been awake for so long… Does he have to dream again so soon?

But he wants to know. Despite it all, he _needs_ to know. And if it means bringing an end to all this, he’ll suffer the crippling self-doubt, the existential crisis. He’ll claw himself out of Bill’s grasp kicking and screaming and bloodied beyond repair. Because he has to. It’s the only choice he has left.

Thirty seconds, and the sign is already in sight. _Welcome to Gravity Falls_ , it says. _Nothing to See Here._

Even though he’s been trying to do so for hours, he can’t seem to prepare for it. Thirty seconds count down to nothing in the blink of an eye.

It’s cliché, an overused metaphor, but in this case, there’s no other way to describe it. It happens, quite literally, in that split second where is eyes close and then open again. One second, the sign is at his shoulder, the next, it’s nothing but a blur getting smaller and smaller in the plastic, red frame of the side window. One millisecond, he’s cognizant and focused and very, very much in control of his own perceptions.

The next, he isn’t.

And he knew this would happened, _hoped_ it would happen. It’s proof, right? _Proof_. But. But, this doesn’t feel like proof, it feels like failure. It feels like everything he’s convinced himself of over his misconceived attempt at escape was wrong, all wrong, all _wrong_. He’d never left. Even if he thinks he has, even if, in a physical sense, he managed to set foot outside of Gravity Falls at all, he never left. Bill was always there, always, always.

He was never alone, never free. He’d only _thought_ he’d escaped.

_Wasn’t campus beautiful? Mabel seems so at home there. Away from you._

Every thought he’d had, every action he’d made, it had all been planned, one giant path for Dipper to follow. A false sense of security laid out in bits and pieces of quiet and sanity and uninterrupted moments of friendship, family, intimacy.

_Was it nice? Pretending that someone might actually want to kiss you? You?_

“Stop.” The word tastes like copper, bloody. It hurts coming out. It hurts going in.

_You can’t stop it. There’s nothing to stop._

“No.”

_I’ve been with you the whole time, Pine Tree._

“No, no, no! You’re wrong! I knew this would… I knew this would happen. I _prepared_ for this. You can’t… You can’t convince me that-”

_You’ve already convinced yourself, though. Haven’t you?_

And… And he has, hasn’t he? Because there’s no way to prove that any of that actually happened, is there? There’s no way for him to convince himself that it wasn’t all a fabrication of his own subconscious, a creation of Bill’s dreamscape. Again. _Again_.

“Kid! Kid, you’re freaking me out…”

What if he never even left Gravity Falls? What if he never even went to visit Mabel? No. No, that’s not right. Why else would he be in the car with Grunkle Stan? He can smell Stan’s Old Spice from the overnight bags in the back, hear the crinkle of a Family Day flier jammed between his foot and the door. Unless.

Unless that’s all in his head too. And the moment he opens his eyes, he’ll be where he’s always been: In his room, in the Shack’s somehow both cramped and too empty attic, with Bill only a whisper away.

“Dipper, you’re gonna give me a heart attack if you don’t-”

But no. No, he’s here. He knows he is. Mabel and he planned for this. They have a plan. And the moment the car pulls into the Shack, he’ll-

Dipper’s eyes snap open. 

Maybe he just needs a little more time. A little more proof.

“Turn around,” Dipper croaks out, his jaw aching, eyes burning. In his periphery, Grunkle Stan visibly startles.

“Kid? Are you-?”

“Turn around. Turn around, turn around, turn around!” Dipper practically screams. He needs this. He needs that little more, an addict desperate for that extra shot of clarity straight to the veins. But maybe, just maybe, it can help refocus, help him keep to the plan. Maybe it’ll be enough for him to believe it. Just like he had before he’d crossed over the town lines.

“Dipper, hey!” Grunkle Stan blinks, hands tight on the wheel, but he’s still driving towards the Shack. He’s not going back. Why isn’t he going back? “What’s gotten into you? I don’t-”

“Grunkle Stan, turn around, please!” Dipper tries, his voice almost a whine for how desperately he’s begging. And thankfully, somehow, Grunkle Stan seems to pick up on the seriousness of it. Without another word, he makes a short, three point turn, and drives in the other direction, away from Gravity Falls proper.

Dipper sees the sign in minutes. They hadn’t even passed the town line for more than a couple of miles. Once it’s in his sight, they pass through it in less, and just like before, everything shifts.

What once was an all encompassing, overwhelming denial of his own control, his own reality, has now dropped back into focus. What once was intangible has become tangible again. Dipper sucks in a breath, fills his lungs in relief, and then lets it out again, holds tight once again to the reins of his purpose. He can do it this time. He can.

“S-Sorry, Grunkle Stan. I’m… I’m alright. Let’s turn back around.”

Dipper can feel Stan’s eyes on him, wary and more than a little concerned, but thankfully, he does as told, pulling another three point turn and making his way back towards the Shack without a word. 

It hits just as hard as the first time, passing back through the town lines. But he’s expecting it, bracing himself for it, more so than before. He’ll lie to himself if he has to, pretend he isn’t drowning in doubt. As long as he can do this long enough to get to Ford, it won’t matter. Eventually it won’t matter that it feels like everything is a fabrication, that Mabel and Chelsea and Cam never happened. Eventually, he’ll be able to walk across Gravity Falls’ town line and back without feeling like he’s given control of his mind over to someone else.

Something else.

“Alright, kid. We’re here. Are you sure you’re-?” 

Dipper doesn’t even wait for Stan to bring the car to a complete stop before he’s throwing open the passenger’s side door and running towards the Shack. He needs to get to Ford. He needs Ford to know. He needs to do this while he still remembers what being on the other side of the town line feels like, while he still remembers what being _awake_ feels like.

Dipper nearly knocks over a display rack of post cards in his haste, slamming his elbow into the vending machine in attempts to slow his momentum. It takes a total of three times before he manages to input the code correctly, and once he does, he has to restrain himself from ripping the door off its hinges when it takes longer than a couple of seconds to open up wide enough to let him pass through.

After that, it’s a flight of stairs, an agonizing elevator ride, and another set of painstakingly slow automatic doors before he’s finally within screaming distance of Ford.

“Great Uncle Ford!” He shouts into the darkened hall that leads into Ford’s personal laboratory. “Great Uncle Ford, are you-?”

Dipper skids to a halt at Ford’s desk. It’s a rare moment to witness Ford in the after stages of sleep, scrambling to gather his consciousness in a way that Dipper can almost sympathize with. Part of Dipper feels bad, waking him; he hadn’t realized (until now?) quite how exhausted his Great Uncle has been. And he has been, for years. Locking himself down here at all hours during the summers Dipper’s been around to witness. Doing what, Dipper can only imagine, but if the messily scribbled triangles and intricately symbol-ridden circles are anything to go by…

“Dipper, I… Oh, um.” Ford clears his throat, getting shakily to his feet, brushing something Dipper can’t see off the lap of his pants; nervous habit? It’s the same outfit he’d been wearing when he waved them off a few days ago. Has he not left the lab since? The conflicting emotions are practically overwhelming: Guilt, Relief, Sorrow, Defensiveness, Love, Chastisement, Determination. 

But above all else, a desperate need to say, “It’s Bill.” Dipper grabs onto Ford’s arms at the elbows, gripping tight to the fabric of his time (and space) worn trench coat. He bows his head, not quite able to look Ford in the eyes and say this at the same time. “It’s Bill. It’s been him the whole time. When I left, w-when I wasn’t in Gravity Falls, I just… I could tell. I knew. He’s doing something to me. I don’t know what, but he-”

“Dipper.”

Ford’s voice cuts through the spiraling panic of Dipper’s mind, eases it maybe not to a complete stop, but at the very least to a drastically slowed crawl. Dipper forces himself to look up, to capture Ford’s eyes, expecting concern, even pity, but instead finding, surprisingly, only a look of immense relief.

“Dipper,” he says again, placing a hand on Dipper’s shoulder, a heavy comforting weight. He smiles, and Dipper feels the relief in Ford’s eyes settle warm and grounding at the center of his chest.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from one of the songs off Hoosier's "Trick to Life" album that got me back into this universe: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hewEMQUIuU
> 
> I blame Kinseis on tumblr/youtube for the original planting of the seed: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qc_v2IZLbSM
> 
> Thanks as always to kali_asleep for dealing with my writing and not writing and sound boarding and basically every step this took to finally take form.
> 
> I'll be doing my best to post every friday like last time. Thank you to everyone who read the original fic. Your comments and kudos meant the world to me.


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